White Is Social Red Is Personal

Have I mentioned lately that I hate you? yes, you heard me. Don't ask me to explain. Don't ask why and make me say it. I can pretend in public and with everyone else but you're different, don't. just don't. don't give me even one inch if you won't let me give it all. or do. shit. do. please. i hate you.

Your hands. They are the safest part of your body. watching them makes me ache to be touched, I want to feel them on my face, neck, the soft tender underside of my breast, your thumb and finger on my nipple, sliding down my stomach, across my hip, imagining what I can't have and what I can't even say. but I don't want to look away, don't want to give up on the possibility you'll change your mind and touch me, and they are the safest place to look.

I can't look into your eyes. Never could, too personal, too much. Can't look at your legs, your thick manly thighs; I've felt them strong and powerful when you're behind me. I've touched them, wanted to climb on top and straddle them with you deep deep... Can't look at your neck that I want to bite, your chest...take off your shirt...off off off, remember...Jesus. So I watch your hands.

You're being playful, teasing, telling stupid jokes that make me giggle and tease back. Sharing stories, letting me harass you, the push, the pull, the dance. The hunger. I ache. I watch your hands.

Do I want a drink? Do I want white or red? What I want... is to take an ice cube from your drink and suck the gin from it, look into your eyes, slide it down your chest, across your nipple, down your stomach, over your hip, follow it with my tongue, my breath hot against your cool skin as I lick the drops away. I watch your hands. Ask for White to be social. explain. I can't drink red. Red is personal, intimate. With you, I can't do halfway. That's not true. I can. I will. I can do what you wish. But not with red.

I need a minute. Don't go. Just let me breathe and collect myself. Order for me, I'll be back. Breathe. Exhale. Ignore how much I crave you, pretend I believe it wouldn't be as good as I remember or that it matters even a little that time has passed and changed us both. Pretend it matters, pretend it matters. It doesn't matter.

I see the glass on the table, you ordered me red. You're probably just playing, but I'm not. I'm being honest, I'm always honest with you. If I drink this, I won't hold back. I've always held a little back. I do it for you, because you want me to. But Jesus, I want to let go. Just one weekend. With only you, no script, no rules, no apologies, try, feel, yes, anything, let go. I haven't let go. not...since.. you.

Glass of red and next to it, on my phone, a text. A text. Look at your hands. Your fingers. Thick, long, remembering where they've touched me, no way you could now, you don't know, you know, play along, stop fighting, slide in, lace your your fingers with mine, let me lead your hands over your head, press your arms back. Those fingers. Yesss.

What I want isn't scripted. it isn't for just you or just for me, it's organic and natural one movement one feeling flows to the next we're moving together in synch and rhy-thum, and rhy-thum, and rhy-thum. I can't look at the text. I know what I want. I know what feels right. I know the slow play and game and grind, we both need and want, and need and want. I can't look. I can pretend it's what I want until I look.

You look at my phone. Dirty smile. I know that smile, The twinkle in your eye, Jesus if I'm reading this wrong just kill me.

I'm afraid to look. No. I'm not afraid. I'm never afraid with you. I know. I don't need to look. You. Me. Us. Yes. Stand up. Take your drink. Take my hand. Look into your eyes. into your eyes. I want to leave with you. No one else needs to know. I want you to know. I see you. You see me. No games. only when we want them. always when we want them.

Your hands. It always comes back to your hands. I can't begin to talk about the rest of your body. Jesus Christ your mind. The rest of you. All of you. All of me. safe. more. yes. more.