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first sex
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the setting: not necessarily a hotel; would rather it be a familiar place, i.e. his bedroom. (I don’t think my bed is big enough to do the job). We would’ve discussed it previously, but not so planned to the minute detail. It’d be more like, “whatever happens, happens.” so we’d be in his room (the one at his new house) and he would initiate it, which would be incredibly sexy. I mean, he’s sexy anyway, but someone else being the more dominant one has always been appealing to me.
So he’d be hovering over me, breathing kinda heavy, his hands removing my clothes + just letting them lay underneath me. I like the hovering part. I like the people being on top part in general. Then: he’d kiss... kiss more exotic places (no, not there!) and I’d have that jaded, innocent fuck-me look on my face, “take me, take me now!” and this being Andrew, he’d ask a million questions, like, “are you sure you’re ready? are can I? am I hurting you? are you okay?” Where all I’d do is nod and gasp and bleed and do whatever virgins do at entry point. (how sexual!)
So anyway (pen change cuz I’m bloody now), he’d kinda collapse on top of me, acting as a sheath or some type of protective gear. Hopefully condoms weren’t involved- I think they’d just be a distraction; I’m sure I could be on the pill by then or something. I wouldn’t want anything getting in the way of our perfect first sex. When we’re both fully finished, we’d obviously be really worn out (at least I would: I’m not used to all this physical activity) and just lay there, wings unfolding as feathers molt on the bed. (or whatever surface we’re on). Really great Celine Dion music would play: “Because You Loved Me.” If I’m lucky, he’ll whisper “I love you” and Blow kisses in my ear, but something tells me that he would’ve screamed it at the point of impact, and in the blurred confusion of aftersex the concept would escape his mind. But me: I would remember the dripping hearts, “I love you’s” smothering his ears like my fingers invading skin, clothed (hey boys are forgetful!) and I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this sooner.
Him: floating by his car, keys jingling against each other (fucking!) in hand, looking oh-so- delicious, beautiful, like I could eat him. It would be a hard drive home. Hard to leave when we should still be knotted in each other’s arms. He’d give me his world famous hugs, a smothering of love- how I’m lathered in it- finding it hard to take the long trek to the door, bathroom, bed, w/ him not in it; solitary. I’d be touching the chest, arm, until fingers are all I can grasp until they too are eventually let go of as I get closer to away from him. My head, glancing at his: he has the look: that brimming-w/- tears one; the one that makes my orifices cry for him. But it would’ve all been worth it in this taking of virginity- the blood, the gore, the fingers taking handfuls of forbidden fruits. We would’ve wanted this, right? The unlocking of doors; overexposure of negatives. It had always tickled me that he wanted to see me naked, like, why? Then it would be like he has, and there’s nothing to look forward to. The tears in front of blues are just more frequent and worried; my mouth hungers more for tongues- pills are the least of it. When we would leave and be later reunited, it seems like penises would be the first thing greeting us.
Beneath belt buckles, the undoing of buttons from jeans, zippers- all hidden symbols of sex. All in his eyes as he would climb back into the car, door slamming, pulling out of my driveway reluctantly, but at the same time like he can’t wait to return to the sex infested bed.
I would smile. Tear up a bit. Fumble w/ the key that’s hidden in the fake rock, hidden in my rock garden. His scent lingers on my hands; my mind. Full, deep breaths the only thing maneuvering me back into the house.
Laying in bed: an arm reaches for him, finding that- duh- he’s not there. I’d really miss him. Turn on the light and crawl towards our Jr. Prom picture, my finger tracing circles around our shapes- a wish to cut him out and transport him into real life.
But him: he’s out there, sprawled on the leather couch, watching “Jerry Springer;” Laughing at the funny parts. The only time he looks (at his lap) solemn are during commercial breaks.
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