Dear My Love
On our first date you ordered us both gin and tonics and we laughed about how many straight people were in that club. You walked through the room, the Red Sea parting the men who thought they were Moses. They made way for you, your gait, your keys that bounced against your pelvis as you moved. I’d never wanted to be hung on something so bad.
I was glad we were there, the music loud and the lighting dim. I didn’t know how to speak to you baby, I was scared I would drool. But I knew how to dance with you. How to let the animals of our bodies do what they wanted to do.
We spoke to each other in that primal language first. As I swayed, I cupped my breasts then slid my hands down the sides of my torso and hips. You smiled slightly, the first you’d ever smiled at me. Until then you were all stone and smoldering. That butch face that could’ve killed me.
You grabbed my waist, I remember the skirt I was wearing, no idea where it is now. Remember that skirt baby? How it clung to me on all sides but lifted so easily? It was always easier to get me undressed than it was to take off all your chains and rings and belts and sports bras. But I relished the task. I still do.
You pulled me close, said, “can I?” And kissed me. You smiled into my mouth, tasting like tequila and lime and man and woman. Tasting like tongue, like you. I couldn’t keep dancing while you kissed me, those devastating hands around my back, then around my ass. The perfect pressure of your fingers, molding my skin.
Your hands gripped me hard, your rings leaving indents and maybe a couple bruises. Let me fall back into that feeling forever.
I stood there in the middle of the dance floor, so wet I thought you might’ve smelled it. Scared it would leak down my leg. We were only one drink and two songs in when we couldn’t take it anymore—remember that? It felt like my husband had come home from war, after spending months in a lonely bed.
We snuck into the bathroom, the two of us. Pretending to be two best girl friends touching up each other's makeup. I locked the door to the single stall. You hiked up that tiny skirt and pushed me up against the door.
Our mouths became a tight glove on a perfect hand. Your pelvis protruded into the space between my legs, my mind darted to worry that my wetness would leave a spot on the front of your pants, and then darted back to your tongue in my mouth.
Then came the hard angry knock on the door. You threw your head back in a frustrated laugh, whispering something under your breath like “hold your fucking piss.”
I leaned my forehead on your collarbone, then bit your neck. You grabbed me by the jaw and kissed me again. The knock came back, angrier. Fuck I needed you so bad, I didn’t know how I could go back out there. You rolled your eyes, grabbed my hand and we walked out of the stall like two caught teenagers.
It wasn’t until I was out of there, looking up at the irritated bouncer, that I realized the door of the bathroom was frosted glass. The shadow of my ass pressed against it was on full display for the entire club. Thank God you took me home right then. I didn’t want to pretend I needed any more convincing.
We snuck into your apartment, a three story walk up with two roommates. I walked in front of you up the stairs, aware that you could see my panties from that angle. I tried to regulate my breathing. Your room was sparse but clean, the Patti Smith poster and the stained glass lamp, a bookshelf with an impressive collection. That was all I could take in before you were over me. On your bed, hungry.
You spread my knees apart and kneeled over me, eyeing me with bewildered pleasure before taking off my tank top. I guess you hadn’t noticed between stolen glances that my nipples were pierced. I could feel you pulsing with desire. I witnessed you witnessing me. You, in your undershirt, a thin veil between me and your perfect body.
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