You asked it so nonchalantly.
“It could be fun…”
It sounded so pleasing. I exhaled, breathing out the mounting anxiety, the itch of consciousness.
Eyebrow raised, a slight lilt in the softly spoken words, you were nice and warm and bright. I keep my mouth shut tight, expecting to express my incapacity to play it cool at any moment.
This is immune to the manipulations of those few who are waiting just out of sight to prey on this hopeful encounter. I breathe again. In and out and in and out.
And we are here and my hand is on your leg and you touch my back in such a nice way. Then my hands are on your neck, your shoulder, neck, face. I can feel you exhale and then we’re kissing.
I don’t know what you want from me. Fuck, I don’t know if you even think you know anything about what I want or what you want… or what anyone wants.
My life revolves around one precarious situation after another. My existence is a precarious situation. There is a delicate balance to be maintained and I’m here to keep the peace, to be flexible, to assist. I am a bridge for others to walk on, the connection between them, nothing more or less.
But this is different. I am not your gateway to another scene, another crowd, another. I am here because I think you want me here, unless you don’t want me here but I am here and you’re a nice guy.
After you cum you don’t get up. Nobody says, “Go get me some napkins.” You stay put, you stay there, with me in that moment.
I can’t remember falling asleep; your body hesitantly, or tentatively, close to mine.
You were so nice. You were always nice… but I don’t know what you want. I can’t figure you out.
Maybe it will all end well.