Will he or won’t he? Will he make the same meanings that I have? Won’t he let his guard down?
Will he or won’t he? I’m still wondering, because he’s still wondering.
I’m still wondering how many more different shapes of benches are along the Thames. No two alike – the ones we kissed upon during our “walk”. The sounds of the city and of others and so many languages, no concern because it’s post-pandemic London and who gives a fuck anyway isn’t everyone glad to see lovers or friends or playmates or whatever we are and will be – isn’t everyone glad to see people kissing in the New Normal? I know I am.
Of course I have an eye out for danger and Brexiteers and violence and coughing so he doesn’t have to stand guard and he relaxes into me. I know that feeling of relaxation. For moments after we meet this time I cannot look at him, I cannot be around him, I cannot speak clearly. I cannot omit physical touch and erotic energy from my communication with him. When I do, I am stunted.
I give in.
It’s powerful, the connection, the love. I put on some show of trying to resist it out of maturity, which it shows me the folly of in cruel, old patterns. It will break my heart and transform his life. I give in anyway.
I touch his skin. Trace the lines of his rings and bracelets. Oh how my eyes have beaten my fingers to these intersections. The cool metal against his warm hands. I have studied and traced his contours. The raisin wood color. The black sheen of his hair. Oh how my eyes get lost in scholarly pursuit of his specific skin. It hits some perfect spot at the back of my pussy canal. And now I am allowed to touch. The moment I touch his skin I wonder if it will ever be enough. Lost.
Will he or won’t he? Will he let his story be dictated by some well-intentioned, loving white woman’s insecurity? Call all his unmet needs unimportant and sink into ease and alcohol and a brand new 50” TV?
He’s still wondering even after our kisses blew so much energy through his system his eyes rolled back into his head, he lost his breath, and he burst into tears.
Will he or won’t he? Am I his bachelor fling? Won’t he go back to his monogamous life and road to marriage and a string of televisions? Bowling on a bumpered lane?
Will he break my heart?
Won’t he break this distance between us?
Will he tell me all his stories?
Won’t he listen to mine?
Will he make it all about sex? Won’t he feel the rest?
Will he or won’t he? Press his smooth skin against mine? Let me tempt him away from a life he doesn’t quite want but makes him so comfortable that he doesn’t need more. Hold hands with me skipping into the green growing edges of his own becoming.
Will he or won’t he? Slip inside me. Kiss me. Talk to me while he makes love to me. Laugh with me while he fucks me. Licks and sucks and toes and nuzzles and breaths in each other’s ears. Playing and talking and kissing. Unable to keep from touching each other. Physically. Emotionally. Energetically. Linking. Circling. Breathing. Unable to keep from challenging each other. Seen. Felt. Heard. Healed. Grown.
Will he or won’t he?
Explore. Fuck. Play.
You asked for me. In all my freedom. You sought and found me, and now that I am here you run away to Greece motherfucker come back to me please come back to me.
I won’t take scraps. Be careful what you ask for.
The yawning heartbreak of unmet potential looms over my tear machine and chokes up my throat a little tight and I know just the thing to open that up.
Each time I set a hard and fast boundary. He edges the line. Tests it. Makes me say no in person. No touching. Nothing below the waist.
Next time if there is one it will be nothing under the clothing. The time after that if we get there it will be nothing below the clothing and the waist. The fifth time there will be no boundaries. Boundaries already faded into intentions that may or may not hold. Boundaries will fade further into me on my knees begging.
Tag. You’re it.
Come get me.
Will he or won’t he?
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