Dude’s got three different facial hair styles in his profile, and there’s only one I could maintain a conversation with for an hour
It was raining, the day they visited, so we watched a movie and then another and then another. He sat to my right in the blueish greyish leather chair, jittering around, unsettled and bored, sprawled out, stretching far past the chair’s structure with his very long legs. He was silent, and I was stiff. I dared not look at him, more than every hour or so, scared to so obviously move my head away from the entertainment, and away from his more friendly friend to my left, to investigate where he was in his world of Twitter and exasperation.
He’d sat quite upright in that place, months and months ago, when he settled there and tugged me on to his naked body. When I gave him my keys for the weekend, he had teased, “I’m going to sit in your chair with my naked butt,” and he did so, but more politely than first implied.
He did not want to be back, in that chair, now.
Someone I don’t want to hang out with promised me a future in gossip that he doesn’t even have if I hang, and we don’t really know any of the same people to gossip about, but I’m sold like damn he knows me well
A week apart passed, he unboarded an airplane and came to see me in my apartment. On the couch, I eagerly pulled at his belt, and blew him, until he was utterly exhausted. I watched him fight the tiredness, willed to force past it to reciprocate: he didn’t have to, it always evened out. With the future’s knowledge I see in his eyes a drive to leave things well, to treat me fairly, wrap up his tab, within the week.
Some nights when I’m tired, I just cuddle with my vibrator.
Me, last night, reading that colds are rarely transferred through saliva: Hmmmmmm.
Me, unexpectedly kissed, on a date, anxiously looking for my Uber, after sitting bored on the beach, watching a long, thin strand of clear snot drip from my nose to the sand: I don’t want to get you sick!