On getting away (and coming again and again): Part I

The first time, they took my body.

This time, I gave them a taste of my mind.

We started our dance at their apartment, cozy mango kisses given and stolen underneath the lights. We made no short order in disheveling, familiarizing. They let me in their lives seamlessly and I drank in their graces with a real, screaming thirst.

They stripped me and striated, paced around me like butchers, deciding where to make the first cut. The Writer grasped my lower lip in her teeth and rolled, a stacatto punctuation in a single move causing the cries to bubble up from my lips. The Photographer kneeled beneath me, kicking my legs open and pulling my pants to my knees. She entered me with a thrust and a moan, just one before my brain rebooted and the feeling came back to my thighs, the pain and hot-sweet rush of arousal popping back into my blood vessels and bringing color to my cheeks. Kneeling over me, The Writer snaps her hand back, cracks it across my face, and it is these small pushes that make me closer to myself and ache to be closer to them. Each pinch and movement of the fingers weakens my resistance to such a hunger, crawling up in my belly unstoppable, a craving satiated by the softness in their palms and white teeth.

We stop only when we realize that dancing awaits, a club downtown pulsing with energy and the tension of queers teetering on lines even thinner than ours, the sweet crunch of ice and lull into nostalgia provoked by old bachata tunes from my city days and the familiar scent of bricks and beer pulling me toward the dance floor. I float between them, buoyant on gin and the sweet tang of affection rich on my tongue and around my fingers. They seduce me, they woo each other, we gaze upon the anonymous dance floor and I bathe in this syzygy, this human balance I have suddenly wandered into and instead of apologizing and leaving- “Sorry, I must have the wrong place,” I take my coat off and laugh a while.

I dance between them and for once, don’t feel so uncoordinated and strange in my shoes, perhaps because I have donned The Writer’s for the evening. They are hooked in my belt loops, hot on my neck. I feel coveted and hungered for and consumed with the desire to give of my entirety as hard as I can take. A brutal jolt from the minutiae of the world that I can lull into and sway to. They hold closer, tighter, the sweet fever of their connection intensifies mine to them and back again, smoke and mirrors of the mind, and I sip and let go, sip and let go.

We stumble out clutching to each other, the friction on our grasping fingers compensating for the lack thereof on the ground and pile into the car. I strip my shirt and put it on The Writer, and The Photographer accompanies me in the backseat. I am pushed gently on my back and she slides into me, her entire fist growing and pressing out of me, deep in my belly, the motion of the car traveling from the wheels to the floor to our feet to inside, and the linear connectivity shakes through me, shimmying past my mind and lips and the traffic lights burn into my eyes as I come, heaving and cold in their arms.

The morning brings a ringing in the ears and ankles tied to bedposts. Kneeling in spite of my mewls, The Writer pushes her cock into my ass inch by inch, the deeper she gets, the tighter her grip on the back of my head, pressing my mouth into the warm gash of The Photographer. I lap and suck and drink of her in endless desire and when I come, the flared violet head craning up into me, I collapse and watch them make love, my face fixated on them as if glued to a television screen. I can’t look away. Their love is palpable and crackling in technicolor bright.


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