With barely any convincing, Paris agrees to watch A Star is Born with me. I can't wait to see his face when Lady Gaga belts her heart out on "Shallow" or gives a riveting rendition of "Always Remember Us This Way." We're waiting for the sun to set so I can leave the curtains drawn and the evening seaside breeze can gently flow inside to keep my room cool. My parents are downstairs playing card games and watching reruns of Seinfeld, a common pastime we usually share, but as much as I love sitting in between my mom and dad while playing poker, I'd much rather spend this beautiful night cuddling alongside my boyfriend watching one of my favorite movies.

The two of us snuggle under the bed and I know my parents said Paris had to sleep on the windowsill, but I don't care. That night I spent over at Paris' was one of the most electrifying moments of my life. I held him all night long and felt his heart beating in the center of my palm. I heard every breath he took as my chin pressed against his soft thin back. Now, after one night with Paris in my arms, I don't think there's enough time in the world for all the moments I want to hold him and call him mine.

The movie starts, and right away my heart races as Paris laces his hand in mine, resting his head of delicate black curls on my shoulder. I turn my head to peer into his petrifying black eyes and become hypnotized by their intoxicating grasp on my soul, unable to focus on the movie even as Bradley Cooper's gripping rifts fill my ears. All I want is to look at Paris forever, to memorize every part of him - every ink black curl on his head, every light dotted freckle on his face, every crease of his bright red lips, every line on his smooth paper white skin. I want to know him in ways I haven't known anyone else before.

As I peer right into his deliciously dark eyes, each and every memory we share flashes before my eyes. From the moment I first caught sight of him through my bedroom window, I knew I wanted nothing more than to fall in love with this beautiful guy who is fantastic in every way. Even in his flaws, I see hope radiantly shine through.

Vivid pictures flicker in my mind of carrying him crying into his house, planting pink carnations on the front porch, taking my first trip to the beach with him, holding him as he cried in the sand, making him feel gorgeous and free in our photoshoot, kissing him after speeding through the desert. All of it I did to know who Paris really was, to know who Paris really is.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Gray?" Paris asks, also unable to focus on the film, only on my distracting green glare.

"I can't help but admire your beauty, inside and out."

Paris' cheeks blush just a tad, enough that it brings some color to his pale face. My fingers trace Paris' light pink cheek, and I outline his thin jawline, analyzing the freckles dotted across his face. He smiles at me, his teeth hiding behind his curled lips. Then, I tentatively meet his scarlet cherry lips and feel him open up to me, meeting Paris' tongue with my own. Our kisses grow deeper and longer, and I attack him ravishingly, unable to control myself.

"Wait, what about the movie?" Paris asks as he gasps for air.

"I've seen it a dozen times," I reply with a flirtatious eye roll, pressing pause on the remote before straddling his body, listening to Paris panting from the feeling of my muscular chest resting against his thin ribcage. He reaches his fingers up to my cheek and pulls me in close, whispering seductively into my ear, every syllable rolling off his tongue with delicate precision, "I'm ready, Gray. Ready for the next step."

It makes me ecstatic to hear that he's ready for this moment as much as I am. Both of us are nervous and somewhat hesitant about taking such a monumental leap. I just need to make sure he's doing this for me – that this is what we both really want, right here, right now.

"You sure, babe?" I say, my voice raspy as I take in a breath of air between our sloppy animalistic kisses.

"Yes," he replies, and I can hear the joy in his voice, taking it as my chance to trail my icy cool fingers under his long sleeve shirt. Paris gulps as I hastily remove his shirt and let it fall gently to the ground, not caring where it lands, only where I'm heading. I feel Paris' warm, wet hands trailing down my back, pinpricking my skin and shooting the nerves up and down my spine. Paris grips at my tee and pulls it over my head, my blond hair tangling into a heaping mess, but that isn't what matters now. All that matters is Paris and me in this one perfect moment, a moment like never before.

Paris fingers the elastic waistband of my underwear, peeking up from under my jeans, and I let out a soft chuckle before reaching for the button of Paris' jeans and slipping them off with his briefs effortlessly. He bites his lip and watches intently as I unbutton my jeans and pull them off with my boxer briefs. We're naked now, and it's a strange yet comforting feeling. Whenever Naomi or Holly and I got physical, it was rushed and distant. Done in the shrouded mystery of darkness, leaving the deepest part of our bodies and souls to the imagination. Here, Paris can see every single part of me, and I can see every single part of him. He's witnessing all the imperfections I scowl at in the mirror. Despite that, I don't feel a hint of embarrassment. Instead, I feel grateful that I'm sharing this moment with the boy of my dreams.

In a way, this is my first time too. The first time I'm actually having sex that matters to me. The first time I'm opening myself up to someone I truly love. Before, sex was a chore. A futile attempt to convince myself and my body that I could feel the same way for women that I do for men. Except I refuse to hate a part of myself any longer.

As Paris stares up at me with his resplendent dark eyes, I reach across to my nightstand and open the drawer, digging around for lube. Gently, I rest my body on top of him, my hips adjusting with his while I trail kisses down his skin, licking the dark hairs on his chest. He runs his fingers across the skin of my toned thighs, which cling tightly to his waist.

"Are you doing alright? Do you want me to stop?" I ask, not wanting to hurt him.

"I'm fine, don't stop," Paris moans, and it sets my abdomen ablaze.

"I'll go slow, I promise," I assure him, coating my hands in lube.

I trace my tongue against Paris' red lips before kissing him once again, and I could never imagine something more beautiful than this. Paris moans as I lightly move my fingers inside him, and I'm terrified of hurting him. He looks up at me with pain in his eyes, and my heart leaps in fear.

"Should I stop?" I yelp in between pants.

"No," Paris responds adamantly, digging his nails passionately into the taut skin on my arms.

I nod and go deeper, a mere overture for what happens next. When he's ready, Paris wraps his arms around my neck and holds me close to his body, bringing me into him with a soft, gentle groan. In that moment, I feel like I'm home. 

***

I've had sex many times, first with Holly, then with Naomi, but never have I felt so alive. Never has it felt so beautiful before, like the sun and stars and sky are coming together in perfect alignment. His touch on my skin, the way my body fits so flawlessly in his. It's as if we were made for each other, like two pieces of the Universe's big dazzling puzzle, finally coming together after millions of years apart.

***

I'm lying beside Paris, the TV turned off and the whole world around me a different shade of wonder. All the stars above look like glitter dusted against a violet sky, and Paris' head rests next to mine, looking over at me with his shining black eyes. Paris' warm finger traces the tattoo on my bicep aimlessly, and I smile at him, realizing that the whole world is different now - the same, but different. The sky is still intact. The stars are still burning. My parents are still watching Seinfeld, but probably too tired to continue their game of cards. The world hasn't ended because I had sex with the boy I love. If anything, the world, and everything in it, has transformed into something better. Even Paris is different. Similar, but different. I can see him better now. I can see into his eyes, can really see into his eyes. I can see how happy he is, even though he's been hurting inside for way too long. I can see that I'm his steadfast rock, that it's my job to keep him tethered to the ground. And I'll gladly keep him safe for the rest of my life, no matter what the cost.

"Paris, are you awake?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, and I can hear the fatigue in his voice.

"I've been working on something. I'm sure it's not nearly as good as anything you've written..."

"What is it?" He asks, tilting his head curiously, sitting up in bed so I can see his shoulders peeking out from under the sheets.

"...a poem by Grayson Pierce. I figured, might as well keep it simple. It's probably the only poem I'll ever write, or at least the only poem I'll put effort into. It's a poem for you, the greatest poet there is. The poet who is my inspiration through even the darkest moments."

Paris tugs at his lip anxiously, and I sit up and turn to him, wanting to look directly in those tantalizing black eyes as I read every word.

"I see new colors, gleaming beams of pink and green and everything in between/I want to lay here with him forever, clutching to his skin through even the toughest weather/I'll be his calm through the darkest storm, here to keep his body warm/I'm bathing in all the hues of love, ecstasy shimmering a gift from above/A big bright box of comfort inside, glittering gold I'll always abide/A present that I will always cherish, my deepest affection, my shining Paris"

A tear falls down Paris' cheek, and I beam with joy.

"That was beautiful," he repeats again and again.

I crawl back up beside him and wrap my arms around his waist, closing my eyes contently as I rest my head against his back.

"Goodnight my love," I whisper softly, keeping my eyes closed, exhaustion washing over me like water droplets.

"Sweet dreams, Gray. I love you more than I could ever say."

My heart melts when I hear him say this, and I couldn't agree more. Even poetry can't put into words the happiness and affection I find in Paris. There's nothing in this world greater than my love for him, a desire I'll never be able to control. Even when we're old and withered, I'll still have that same passion, maybe even greater than before. Our love will only grow, and I can't wait to watch it bloom like a rosebud sprouting up and opening up to the light, flourishing and bathing in the warmth of care and comfort and everything good in this world.