Summer Heat

When the freezing air whips my face, I hear him telling me in the heat of summer how he couldn’t wait to kiss me in the cold. I remember screwing on the roof of a warehouse and hearing the subway screech by as he came. I walked around wet and bow-legged that afternoon, feeling sheepish and exposed and entirely his.

When I smell coffee grinds, slightly burnt, I think of stretching awake in his apartment to the scream of milk being steamed. I imagine his hands at my knees, smell his pillow, see a flash of pajama blue. He’s lapping at me, his hand reaching up, palm flat on my stomach. As I twist my hand back to grip the mattress and jerk my head to the side, I’m inches away from the breakfast tray, the gorgeous feast he prepares knowing how excited I’ll be at every bite. He slips long, handsome fingers inside me. There’s butter and jam and coffee with creamy milk; he feeds me what he knows I love, he must notice over the months as my belly pads with goodness. As I look down, I see mischievous eyes glinting through a flutter of lashes and feel the lushness of his mouth on me. 

When men approach me as men sometimes do, and I hear words and register vague facial features, I imagine him in that grey linen shirt, leaning against a stucco wall, waiting for me to board the train. I want to flick each button out of my way and lean in to lick his tender, sexy nipples, roving and pushing with my tongue’s tip, nibbling lightly. I always feared I’d hurt him doing this, and a few times I did. I’m sorry, whoever you are, I’m sure you’re very nice and I’m supposed to make conversation, but I love his nipples so much, see? I don’t want you to be here at all. I want him, naked, stretched out along this bar, so I can straddle him and fuck his gorgeous body while everyone watches. I want to wrap myself around him and feel dizzy from the motion, and find the mole on his back — that part that’s all his but that only I could draw from memory, with its little constellation of freckles. 

This body of mine is moored, it wants to play and splash about, but he’s not here. “Do you fantasize about me?” he asks. Where to begin? Yes, I do. I want you inside me in every city of every country I’ve yet to visit. I want to stroke and fumble quietly in the middle of the night so we don’t wake the others. I want us to steal away from the reception so I can swallow you in some restaurant coat-check room, on my knees in a too-white dress. Be tender, be brutal, shove me against a wall, cradle me in your arms. Let me make you come once for every stupid mistake I made.

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