Are you checking me out? Are you listening?
I don’t know what I’m saying and I think I’m dissociating whilst in reality it’s just my mind wondering how it would be to kiss you midst smiling to something I said, to something you did, to something we avoided the eye contact about.
I can feel the sweat on my chest, and there is a little drop running down my back; I am focusing on that and I am not listening, and you are not talking, we’re just gazing away and I like the way your hair gets in the way of my straight thinking, I can feel it with the corner of my right eye.
I want you to obfuscate my entire view, to just sit on me and hug my body with your long legs and squeeze until my ribs hurt and my dick hardens under your weight.
I want everyone to see you chose me on this sunny day that could have belonged to anyone but it’s mine, and I am yours because I belong to no one and a moment matters only that much.
I want to lick your salty neck and put my sticky hands on your back, your belly, slip my fingers into your jeans and feel that you want me too, that your body is connected, and my brain is aching because there is no blood left to nourish my confusion.
It doesn’t matter, fuck it doesn’t matter anymore, for now, here, when I cannot distinguish your smell from mine as we’re breathing onto each other and it feels right, don’t you think it feels right? Why are you here? How do you cum? How do you sleep? Where will you go?
“You know when you want to laugh so hard but you can’t cause it’s inappropriate? Doesn’t it make you laugh harder?” you ask. Oh I know what makes me harder, I think, and I stare at you like an idiot. I’m sure you’ve noticed my absence but it’s only because I am actually closer to you, I am in fact in you, in every way, in every instant, how can I be so distant when the only thing I want is to reduce the meter between us to zero?
“Shall we go? I’ve got my appointment”, fuck, I think, fuck.
“Can I walk you there?” last chance.
We walk and I am trying to come back to myself, so I don’t know what I’m saying, I know it shouldn’t be so much about me. I’m lost in you to the point that I forget where you are, because denying pleasure neutralises you. But I am me again, pressed against the wall of your friends’ house, with the cars rumbling still at the traffic lights, you kissing me again, your hands running on my skin, a mercilessly soft touch I can’t delete from the archive of my favourite sunny days.
