Laurence Olivier is My Lover

by Quin Browne

We are lovers. Sliding from one phase of knowing each other to the other with a ease that caught us both by surprise; going from discussing something now forgotten to leaning into each other - tasting, discovering, putting my mouth on his neck, his hand there, right... there. I had been on a hiatus of sorts, a decision abandoned with his wicked, bad smile and my answering kiss. Moving together, giving over my trust, both fumbling to fit into this new place in our world, I was wrapped in glorious sheets, lost in remembered rhythms, his hands on my hips, his body beneath me. Stopped short by an orgasm that surpassed every cliché ever written in a bad bodice ripper novel, I splayed my hands on his chest, gasping for air and laughing as I said, "That was magnificent!" "I know," he replied wearily, "but, I don't know how I did it."


Quin Browne, author of Blind Date (one of 6S's most discussed and viewed pieces), wasn't going to write here anymore. But she lost an unspoken bet with a friend. She hopes that friend will collect his winnings, because he's right, as he is, far too often.