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and carpenter pants, like me, but also a fisherman's hat that covers his eyes just barely. sexy fuckin body and good dancer and pretty soon we're freaking, him dipping down and smacking my legs, my right hand on the small of his back. we haven't smiled yet, we're still playin it cool and being tough.
lips, then tongues touch. or maybe vice versa. right now i'm listening to le tombeau de couperin by maurice ravel, played on piano by anne queffelec. her frenchness comes through by how she plays: you can make a quiet, but resonant sound on the piano by gently but firmly pressing the key all the way down, and even though she's playing a stunningly difficult piece, she can make it sound like every note, she's doing that. it sounds like cream colored curtains opening and sun shining through.
he says 'you're so fuckin' sexy, you know i wanna be with you tonight.' i'm trying not to do that so much this year, though, even though my hand slips below his waist and his ass - the perfect tight, round kind that you wanna put your face in - gives me an instant hardon and all i can dream about is getting him somewhere, anywhere, where i can get his legs on my shoulders. put my hands on his waist and plow him good, so that he's grabbing onto the scruff of my neck because my hair's not long enuf for him to pull on and feeling the backs of his thighs, maybe hairy, maybe smooth, bounce against my chest and get sweaty. i wanna fuck him with maxwell playing 'till comes up the sun, moon goes where it's from, till the morning comes, sideways upside down ceiling on the ground till my lost is found' fuck music in the background. i wanna fuck him in my bed and kiss the back of his neck.
he buys me a bottled water; i meet his friend, who was making out with my friend; maybe a double date or just an orgy. numbers exchange and i show off my new business card. i call him as soon as i get home, before he gets home, to apologize for not saying goodbye.
