I am gaga for authority figures
“I don’t know how old you are, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are very wise,” he said to me, awkwardly confessing to me, in a way I’ve always known to mean: I want to fuck you and feel uncomfortable about it.
“It’s fine, I want to fuck you, too!” I wanted to shout back. I wanted to make him comfortable, let him know it’s mutual, let him into my head where I fawn over him, yet where I watch him whince when I tease him, overanalyze him: a symptom of my obsession, his quirks are all so cute to me.
He hasn’t let on yet that I am so warm to him. I can’t let on to him that I am so warm. I want him to know, we’re in the same place, with a wink or accidental bump, a physical connection of meaning. I want to jump him mid meeting. I will not jump him. I will not let on. I cannot let on.