On queries.

She has left my lips beestung and fragrant. I am suffused with nostalgia, with bliss, with desire. I like being friends with the people that I have sex with, and having sex with the people I call my friends. The Query is gorgeous because I have known her for so long – there are things we can say to each other with abandon, and there are silences that remain perfectly unsaid simply because there is a pre-established comfort, a ritual, a knowledge in knowing first and second and third-hand secrets about the world and sharing them with gusto. And there is gossip, and so, so much of it, the indulgence knocks me flat.

I don’t think she had two feet over the threshold before I kissed her. A month had been too long to wait, a year had been torturous. Even now I kick myself thinking about the lost, hot sex we’d have been having in high school. She comes with the unique perspective of seeing me at an unfiltered, constantly changing juncture. She has seen it all (a brief stint into Libertarianism the most notable) and still wanted more.

We were fucking within minutes. She is all present, and no bullshit. I don’t often top but there’s something about the unadulterated purity of our contrast that invokes my snide side, that she knows I am all pomp and no circumstance makes my moves bolder, my sneers grander. I push her onto the bed and fuck her with deliberation, with a month’s worth of tension stuffed into my fingers and dripping down her thighs.

With each thrust, she responds with every iota of her body, a curl in the toes and a flutter of the eyelids, her noises are both vulnerable and intoxicating and I want to hear them and have them breathed into my mouth so I mold myself closer to her, deeper, and I hold her at the roots of her mind.

Behind this want is a sweetness steeped in familiarity, a connection that has intensified and unfolded in a variety of fashions. There is The Query I courted, The Query alone, The Query who dated others, Query in the area, Query in my arms, Query lapping at my clitoris, Query on my lips. It is due to these paper-thin, worded layers sealed with a kiss that I am okay pushing her, pushing myself and my boundaries. She plunges into me and I hold her elusivity in my arms, fast to my breast.

She cares for cleverness and leaves me a necklace of lipstick kisses to compliment the notes she has been sending, she presses her earring into my palm as she leaves, and Molly Ringwald leaves with the sun. Her lingerie lays draped over my Levis.


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