Kitchen.

We're cleaning up the dishes.

I lean over the counter, sponge in hand, wiping up the parmesan cheese scattered across the marble surface.

He's behind me.

"These jeans could have been painted on," he murmurs into my ear.

His hands run up my ass, following the curve to the base of my spine before slipping over to the front. He pulls me against him, using my hipbones as handles, and slowly grinds against me.

... ... ... ...

"Forget the party, we should go down to the beach."

He's sitting in my passenger seat.

I glance over, "I can't. I told them I'd be there at five-thirty and I'm already late."

"Take me to Sunken City."

"Another time. I really need to get going."

"We should go out to dinner soon."

I realize I've shown him too much affection. He translates my care for him and his well-being as love. As he tries to convince me to abandon my previous plans, I sit and kick myself for not being colder. I should have known better. He's at my feet like a puppy, waiting for me to feed him treats.

He interrupts my thoughts, "After the party, you should call me. We can go out."

"I'm already exhausted from clubbing last night and being up so early this morning for this event. I doubt I'll have the energy to go out after this."

"Drink some coffee."

"I've got another date tomorrow morning," I try to gently remind him of my lifestyle choice, the choice I made when I decided that he could not have a permanent place in my life, "I can't be up with you all night and then spend tomorrow with this guy all exhausted. That's rude."

"Well, think about it. Let me know."

"I will, but it's doubtful. Please don't get your hopes up." That last part is almost a laugh. It's too late. His hopes are up. His hopes are up for more than I'm willing to give. I know I'm going to have to cut him loose soon and I know that this may cost me his friendship.

We present a good picture.

Lounging down at the house in Long Beach, we socially intertwine. The girls are intimidated by him, by his height, his dress, his attitude. The men are intimidated by me, by my attitude and man-eating reputation. They see him fall for me and it's another feather in my cap. If this man curls up at my feet so easily, what chance do they have?

I'm always outside the group.

... ... ...

One of the girls mentions that they're talking about me down in south Orange County. Apparently, my writing is spreading. Me, a topic of conversation. Who knew?

When I was in San Francisco, the man I was visiting took me to three of his cross-fit classes. I did not understand why, during the classes, he kept looking at me and grinning. It was the oddest smile. I kept asking him what was so amusing, and finally he told me that he couldn't believe that I, of this particular section of internet fame, was doing these classes with him.

Like I wasn't a regular person.

That shocked me.

He was the first to do that.

Last weekend, a similiar situation happened.

Another man wanted me for the same reason. Because of the writing. Because of the stories. Because of the growing fan club. Like me sleeping with him would somehow make him special, like he would somehow become part of the stories.

I've put so little effort into that site, it's only been a few months.

I'm not sure what to think of it.

Another Minute More is All I Need

He says he spoke to his therapist about me, told her about my penchant for damaged, dominant, intelligent males.

In turn, she said that he continuously found unhealthy women, like myself.

But, he told her, that while damaged, I am incredibly self-aware and, due to that, probably the healthiest out of all them.


It's funny, in a way.

The last girl he truly went for was also living in Los Angeles. She was a smouldering pile of self-involved, unaware wreckage. She doesn't want to know, doesn't want to see, who she is.

It's sad. Avoidant.

So much of my life has been a internal dive, searching for the core of myself, searching for visceris. I can't imagine any other way to be.

... ... ...

My legs are draped over his. Reclining on the futon, eyes half-closed, while he reads to me.

Sometime, this last weekend, things became intimate. It went past the point of fuck buddies, past partners, skidded past lovers, and almost into beyond that. I think it was when I would finally hold his hand without shying away.

We stand in his kitchen. The light is off, but the receding sun illuminates the high ceilings and the antique stove. The clawfoot bathtub, encircled by plastic shower curtains, the narrow spiraling stairway leading to the roof, and the tiny window overlooking the alley, bringing in the breeze of the day.

It's calm.

Music from outside drifts in the open windows, dances around before meeting the walls that enclose us. My hands are on his ribs, his chest, feeling the firmness and strength. My lips are on his neck, allowing access for my tongue to brush against the stubble of his jaw.

I'm on his bed, facing out the window, looking at the buildings stacked so closely together, like someone was assembling a difficult puzzle and realized that they could build up and overlapping, just given the right materials. The wind comes in, caresses my face, tosses my hair, runs down my shoulders, lower back, and ass, like a cool water following my curves. My tattoo looks even more distinct against his white sheets, white comforter, and the fading light. The black squares belie the softness of my body, taunt the softness of the bed. The wind comes in again and I lower my chin onto my hands.