Like now. I’m sitting on this stacked stone wall encircling Mona’s backyard, still the “potted plant” wallflower, while my son is dabbing, sliding and Fortnite flossing, his face lit up as he stands in one of the lines awaiting his turn in the spotlight. Mona powers down the open lane between the two lines, moonwalking, pop locking and freestyling with Marvin Gaye crooning encouragingly.

And then it’s Kimba’s turn.

That damn little dress she’s wearing has tortured me ever since it walked through the door, swishing around her toned legs, hinting at an ass which, I remember from the times I’ve seen her in form-fitting clothes, is spectacular. The spaghetti straps slip off smooth brown shoulders as she shuffles down the open lane. She lifts her hands in the air, arms extended, worshiping the beat, twirling carelessly as the hem of her dress flies up, flashing the tops of her thighs.

I haven’t been this hard in weeks. Months. Years.

Ever?

I don’t remember having an erection around Kimba when we were growing up. We were kids. We were young. Even when we shared our first kiss, I wasn’t afraid my body might betray me, confess to her the urges we weren’t ready to act on. But now, watching her, wanting her as a man, not an untried kid, there’s no hiding the effect she has on me. I’m sitting on the sidelines, not just because I’m apparently the only dude at the cookout who can’t dance, but because if I stand, everyone will know my situation. Immediately.

There’s no hiding this fully erect dick in my pants.

I’ve tried not to watch her, but I’m obsessed with the curve of her waist, the shadowy dip between her breasts, the elegant line of her neck, the way her hands dance in the air when she’s animated. The intricate whorl of her ear when she pushes the curls away from her face. The regal profile and perennially-kissed pout of her lips. Hers is a boudoir body out in the open, a bold sketch of elongation and exaggerated curves.

I have to stop.

But I can’t.

It’s a compulsion. It’s a high. After all these years, she’s here. And I can’t get my fill. All these people—I wish they’d disappear and I could have her to myself. I could excavate her mind and dig around in her soul and get close enough to hear her heartbeat. Beyond the desire to lay her down in the grass and plunge between those long legs, there’s something I want even more. To know her the way I did before. No, deeper than I did before because now we’re adults, re-formed by time and experiences.

I want to learn the new shape of her.