I wrote this last year on social media, and I was reminded of it when San Diego Comic-Con International, possibly the most crowded and chaotic of pop-culture convention events in the world, ended this year. I edited one sentence that I had agonized over.
Comic-Con 2018 is over, leaving only memories. Here is one such memory of an intimate encounter I had on the dealer’s room floor.
We both strained toward each other, surrounded by sweating, pressing bodies. We had different goals in mind, but luck brought us together. Our eyes met—just for a moment—and I looked away. Then, it happened. As I tried to veer out of your hobbling path, your belly pressed into the back of my hand. Your soft flesh quivered against my unyielding knuckles, spreading to envelop them…filling every space they offered. I felt the heat radiating from beneath your T-shirt, running from my hand, up my arm, and to my core. Your husky body stood in place. My lean hand did not move. How long did this last? It felt like forever, with neither of us allowing our eyes to meet again—with neither of us voicing our desires.
We should have moved on, and, perhaps, we were always two male-bodied people in motion, each in our own directions—neither of us truly coming together with the other. This moment—this fleeting eternity—was all we would ever have. This collision of flesh—this hesitation—was everything and nothing. As our halting, passing embrace continued, I felt your supple belly languidly drag itself across my hand. Your flesh flowed and rippled, lingering as if you never wanted to lose my touch. One last moment, and then your skin sprang free from the edge of my hand. You moved on, leaving me unsure which way to go in all these strangers.