I walk up the stairs and out onto the street. I know he’s following me, because there’s this heat on my back that didn’t exist before tonight. He’s making my insides burn, just by walking behind me. This is not good. He may be watching my ass, but I’d like to think he’s watching the street around us. If I want him to come back to my place more than once, he’ll need to know how to get there. I’m not fucking giving him directions more than once.

The swing comes back into my step at that. I can feel cocky, dammit. I can be in control. So there. Since the first shock of falling in love has worn off (about how long it took for me to get my coat and walk up the stairs), I’m busy vigorously denying to myself that it ever happened. I am good with words, and right now I’m very eloquently telling myself that no, I don’t love him. He’s a quick fuck, probably a right fun fuck, but he isn’t more than that. It’s just sex with a total stranger, which is perfectly fine given the fact that I usually pick my partners with more care than I pick my words. Oh, but he’s just sex. Riiiiiiight.

I walk up the street, and he gets tired of walking behind me. Hey, buddy, I thought the view was pretty good. He comes up next to me, and starts making conversation. He is talking about photo plates, he’s a photographer in the most amateur sense but he loves the developing process. So I let him talk and talk, listening, because he uses words well. He swings me around, and suddenly I’m walking backwards, watching him.

“Hey. Fuck you.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “I’ll make sure you won’t hit anybody.”

“Like fuck you won’t.” I’m not going to trust him, I’m not going to trust him, I’m not . . . oh damn.

“I promise. I won’t let you fall over, either.” He smiles again, and I almost trip on my own feet. Boy, don’t do that.

He keeps talking, telling me about the silver stop procedure, or something. He tells me about gel plates, and the difference in quality between black&white film and color film. How you can get better texture with black&white, and I think about texture. You haven’t seen texture until you’ve seen this boy’s eyes, his face, the way his mouth seems completely unconnected with the rest of his face, but like they’re all still on speaking terms with each other. That’s texture.

And all the time I’m walking, he’s grabbing my hand or my wrist, and moving me a foot to the left, or catching me right before I fall. And every time he grips my hand, he takes a little longer to let go. Finally, in the middle of a treatise on the merits of his actor friend, who’s also this amazing photographer, he grabs my hand and pulls me close.

He kisses me, and I let him. I’m falling into his mouth. Fucking fantastic. I’m dying really, and I don’t ever want it to stop. See, his mouth isn’t just independent of the rest of his face, his mouth is brilliant. His mouth is a genius, it makes my knees want to run off somewhere and find nasty things to do in the bushes, leaving my legs to topple under me. His lips are soft, and slim, and they twist my mouth up, reaching for something to brush up against. He twists my insides up.

Suddenly I remember that I’m in love with him. Damn. I push away. Fuckity fuck fuck. I wait until I can breath, and then I keep walking. He’s been watching me, trying to figure out what he did wrong. Nothing, boy. I’m just not enough for you right now. Or you’re too much for me. I can’t decide which.

We get back to my apartment. I’m on the top floor, so I’m treated to the wonderful experience of being at extremely close quarters with this short, confident man while we walk up four flights of stairs. My roommate is out with his boyfriend, probably for the rest of the week, but he was kind enough to clean the apartment for me before he left.

The walls are this perfect blue, this color that makes me think that I’m swimming in walls, in furniture and windows and the city below the windows. It also makes my boy’s eyes look like chips of some kind of gemstone. I don’t know what kind. I love words but rocks are fucking boring. Look it up: gray stone, looks like the eyes of the man I love. Yeah, you’ll find it, no problem.

I go to the fridge, look in. My half of the fridge is the condiment palace. I have canapé, pate, liverwurst, and six kinds of cheese spreads including Happy Cow, Hillshire Farms and Torta. I have caviar, really every kind of condiment you could think of. Oh, shit. I forgot to buy fucking crackers. Oh well, no dinner tonight. I sigh, and I hear his jacket come off.

The fridge door shuts, and beyond where it used to be I see him. Nice arms. Very nice. His face looks even better in the light of my apartment. He’s looking at me, and the way he looks at me makes me feel perfect. No, “perfect” is a greasy word. He makes me feel like I’m worth all the shit I put him through. He makes me feel like we could fit.

Boy takes his shirt off. He’s looking at me, like he knows what’s expected of him; only it’s not what I expected. He looks like he’s ready to get down to business, not like he’s ready to have some fun or anything. His face is set. Ah, he took that kiss the wrong way. He thinks I want a hired fuck and nothing else. What’s strange is that he’s willing to. He’d go through with it, this damn game of sex-and-pay; he would do that. Have you ever met anyone who would debase themselves like that for you? No? Well, don’t ask for it. It hurts like hell.

I come over to him and put my arms around him. That much skin contact gives my head a buzz, but I don’t let go. I’m wearing this corset-like shirt with all these tucks and levers and pulleys on it, but it ties up in the front. The thing is, I’m gripping him so tightly that he can’t get to the laces, no matter how much he wants to. My hands are on his back, and I’m feeling his muscles and trying not to let my hands slip off, and he’s fumbling at my waist, and I just start kissing him.

I don’t fucking care, whatever, I’m done. I give up. I’m a fucking loon, but I want this. I start giggling like a maniac, and I still won’t let him get to the laces of my shirt, but he doesn’t even want to anymore. He’s busy kissing me back, which is hard because I’m hiccupping into his mouth, laughing and smiling and trying, trying to make our lips meet, because that’s what this is for. Suddenly he makes a sneak attack on my shirt. I’m shrieking with laughter by this time. This guy is so much fun, I’m damned if I’m going to let him win that easily.

I take a step back, away from his hands, and suddenly I’m falling. Damn. Must’ve tripped on the edge of the carpet. I feel myself falling down, and then his arms are around my waist, and I’m on the ground, and he caught me. I reach up and grip his shoulders with my arms, and wriggle out from under him. I still have my shirt on, hahaha. He turns around and looks at me. The way he looks at me makes me start untying my shirt, just like that. Fuck, too many things tonight were easy. Me included. This is wrong, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be right.

So my shirt’s off, and I’m just standing there in my favorite jeans and nothing else. Better take those off. Wait, better to take his off, first. I reach over to take them off, and he just lets me. He just looks at me. No, don’t look at me. His face tips back while I work, and his eyes catch the light. When I’m done, and he’s in his boxers, for some reason I just want to stand there watching him. I know if we have sex I’ll close my eyes, and I don’t want to. I never want to stop looking at him. I take my jeans off, and we stand there.

God, it’s fucking freezing the living room. Better go somewhere else. I take his hand and pull him towards the bedroom. It’s always warmer in there, because I’m really cold-blooded, I get cold all the time. It’s so bad that I usually wear sweaters in summer, and I always have the heat on in my room. Well, what do you want me to say? I get cold a lot. I’m getting cold right now, actually, realizing again what I’m doing.

Fuck. We’re in the bedroom, and I’m just standing there, trying to figure out what to do next. The heat is like a tropical summer compared with the cold ocean of the living room. I’m standing there, in my underwear, trying to fix my head, trying to find something to balance me, because I just fucking tipped over.

Damn. I want to do this, I don’t want to feel bad about it now that I’m here. Don’t let me feel bad about this. Too late. I just picked up some guy in a bar and took him home. I showed him my room, for fuck’s sake. What am I doing here, anyway? No, better yet, what the hell is he doing here? I’m a fucking spinning top, I can’t make up my mind which way to face.

I get ready to turn around, tell him something, anything that will get him out of here. I don’t deserve this, I certainly don’t fucking need it. I turn around and he’s naked. Well, that was unexpected. I flop down on the bed, because what do you do when someone takes all their clothes off and they’re just waiting for you to look and them and want them?

I’m looking at him, I’ve got the wanting part down. I just need to do something about the acting on my desires part. He meets my eyes.

“What do you want me to do?” His words are sticky, waiting. He repeats the question.

I sit still and think. What do I want him to do? Make up your fucking mind, you jerk. Either fuck him or put him out, but don’t just sit there like a moron. I take my sweet damn time deciding, but I do make a decision finally.

I get up, walk past him, dodging the hand he puts out to keep me from leaving, and shut the door. When I turn around, he’s just standing there, hanging on the air like smoke. What do I want him to do? I turn off the light.

“Everything,” I say.