This is about to get a bit durty. Prepare yourself. I was very drunk writing this, and I found it today, so take my drunkenness into consideration as you read.
The heat and sweat; it builds.
I open my eyes to see two small flickers of light—i notice that these are your eyes.
Although it is dark and we move quickly, I can see them. You hands on
my lower back; it arches towards your bare chest. Your hands slide upwards,
higher, higher, until you feel the muscles in my shoulders move and contract. I bring one of my hands gracefully from your jaw
to your chest, holding myself up and pushing you away. Our bodies move in quick rhythms. The intensity makes our pulses quicken. We cannot catch up to our breath, for the pace moves along to our tongues, hands, hips, lungs. My hand slides slowly back to the side of your face. My fingers discover the back of your neck, now blanketed with tiny droplets of sweat. My eyes close again to feel the rhythmic pulses, although you will not see them closing. Your fingertips continue to dance on my back, sliding underneath the clasps of my brastrap. I let you unclasp it, trying to let some heat slip away from between our bodies. Once it is unclasped, your hands slide back in front, cradling my breasts. Your lips on them paralyze me for a moment as I have a flash, back to this same feeling, but with my first love. I see his lips. The memory quickly vanishes, and you come up for air. I begin to feel fatigued, so I turn into you. My head presses against your heart, beating quickly. You have never felt a rush like this before, although I have. I’m not sure what it is that I find so comforting about your body. Your chest is relaxed but strong enough to hold me close. I softly place me hand on your sternum, feeling the relaxed energy. As I look up at your flickering beady eyes, you kiss me.
This night was not about love.
Why must you act as if you love me.
You tenderly kiss me as you thrust your body deeply at mine, leaving me bruised for the next few days.
New close friend of mine: do not bring love into these hours. These was not a minute of guilt until you tenderly kissed me. The guilt slowly floods into my brain. The slower it accelerates, the more painful it becomes. You then whisper that you want more of me, but you have worn me out.
I return your kiss with another of its previous kind; soft; tender; I slide back on top of you with both hands pressed against your solid chest. This time, your hands slide up, grasping my opposite hips. I put my lips to your neck, hardly sucking with the small amount of energy left in me. I want to continue but my body has nothing left to exert. I pull away from you to grab my pants. I giggle. Once we are clothed again. I cling onto your damp body, ignoring the sweat we drenched eachother in. You hold me and grab onto my hand. I am shocked, until I see that you are quite the actor. I should just pretend you love me, as our fingers clasp together. Inside, the pleasure has turned into frustration, because you brought love into this grame. I will see you on Monday in the halls, and we will act as if nothing happened. But I gave part of myself to you, and you gave yourself to me. It would have been much easier, had you left love at home, out of the game. Now, when I see you during lunch, and our eyes awkwardly meet, I will not see the two flickers in the dark—I will see your eyes close up to mine as you kissed me tenderly. Now that you have showed me love, I will be confused. However, you will continue to bring “love” into the lustful nights your spend with other naive girls. You will probably drench the same leather couch in sweat, and pull the same blanket over her shoulders. She will love you for a moment, and cling onto you, because you put on the act. On Monday, when your friends ask who made your neck pink and purple, your reply will be “nobody”, you will laugh, and you will shrug the question off.
