I wasn’t expecting to take you home.
Even though before, I’ve seen you naked, touched you naked, slept beside you naked and more.
I wasn’t expecting you to let your friends all leave without you. I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me at the bar in front of the bartender who knows us both so well. I wasn’t expecting to take you home.
I am so glad you came home with me.
You are so fiercely intelligent. I not only respect you. I adore you.
I know all too well the gazillion ways that we are not compatible. I know I am too loud, too opinionated, too liberal, too tall in my 4 inch heels for you. I also know that when it is just the two of us, all that changes.
The way I talk about sex bothers you. Yet you can overlook that just the night before, I brought a different boy home. My forward nature doesn’t impress you. Until I take my top off and stand on the balcony wearing nothing but jeans and a glass of champagne and we talk. And talk and talk.
I have to make a case for sex. Explain away how this will change the two of us in the future. How it will affect our mutual friends who may or may not know the ways we know each other. I state my case. I win.
I know I have written about you in the past; I know I wasn’t generous or kind. If I could take it all back, I would. In its place, I would write how the way you kiss makes me wet. How when I kick off those heels and we see eye to eye, all I want is for my nakedness to be entwined with yours. The way you talk about my body, the way you appreciate it, the way it responds to you, I can’t help but want you.
We can laugh while fucking. We can carry on an entire conversation during sex. I can smile. Then after, when we’ve found satisfaction and need a glass of water, when I open the drawer to slide on boy shorts, you pull them out of my hand, toss them to the floor and say, “Why put those on? I’m going to fuck you again.”
Oh. My. God.
I don’t want to be your girlfriend. I do want to be your friend.
And I definitely want to fuck you again.