On moves.

Note: I originally wrote this and drafted it in mid-February. I’m posting it now, because I’m cute. And because we’re totally going to fuck and it’s going to be excellent.

The Brit explicitly said not to write about it, but if I write about it and don’t post it, does that still count? Even if it lingers forever in the draft section of my website? There have to be hundreds of posts like it, unposted, therefore, according to our shared culture, unwritten. It happened, even if it didn’t. I wrote it, even thought nobody knows.

The Brit said not to write about it. I know why, too. I’m ostentatious, I’m showy, I’m a braggart, and if I didn’t detest ruining finely polished wood and if I actually owned a bed frame other than the rickety one propping up my second air mattress right now, it would likely have notches carved into it. I can’t blame myself. I like talking about sex. I like my prowess, I like myself.

What did and didn’t happen was a meeting with The Query tonight. We had drinks. I know her from high school, she goes to school moderately close to where I live. She was in town. I’ve always found her attractive both in personality and physicality. She moves quietly and makes subtle gestures, but they are always strong and come with an air of deliberation. We have similar taste in many things.

We met through a mutual friend about six years ago, I professed my adoration and inadvertently came out, then retracted my sexuality, via sparkly pink pen written on a note. She’s been dating another acquaintance, I’d been bouncing around. We had drinks. Immediately, something was different- classic Friend Is Not Just Friend trope, add it to the ongoing list of classic hijinks, perhaps, or maybe I was just feeling a little more flirtatious than usual.

In any case, it was a little electrifying.

There was physical contact, but as in the legal world, like everything else, it depends on your definition of physical contact. In any case, her hand moving up my inner thigh was enough to push work and play to the back of my mind.

I wanted to kiss her- no, I wanted to kiss her perfectly. I wanted the bar patrons to suddenly shut the hell up so I could play something by Starfucker and grab her with both of my hands, my muscles flexing admirably in my black v-neck. I wanted Forrest Bueller Alvy Sartre embodying my every move and to then spirit her away to the bathroom and fuck her against the wall.

Instead, I just went and peed.

Our mutual aggression continued, and then I walked her back to her ride. She mentioned later that she was asked if we’d ended up having wild, crazy sex in a bathroom a la The L Word. I should have, and I’m kicking my ass and touching my clit fervently for not doing so.

Next time, I’ll make my move.


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