Why am I here? Do I know you? Is this what I was looking for?
I asked him, then myself. He was in front of me, half naked, with a confused smile on his soft lips.
I had a look around. Another bedroom, another cigarette, another night. Still the same me, all startled.
What do you want from me?
He stared into my eyes, waiting for a definite answer. All I could think of was to quickly grab him before he could realize I actually had no clue myself.
Shut up and kiss me.
Tongue on his stomach, and down more, I began to laugh at myself.
It’s not here. I thought.
The story is getting old now.
Meet up, drink a bit, touch him, down more, kiss him, get wasted, kiss him again, sober up, pretend to be drunk, finish it, get up and leave, then move the fuck on.
It does feel good. Exciting. Fun. And young. Until the last kiss, or when the light is on and touching becomes awkward. That moment we are back to the strangers we have always been.
What the fuck am I doing here?
I’m frightened. I need to go, and probably never come back. Straight to the door.
It’s funny because I was the one who asked for it. Then ridiculously, I felt cheated.
It’s like alcohol. Or drugs. The process is probably the same. I was sure until it happened. Then I knew the liquid down my throat did not have the taste I was seeking. Not even the act of drinking.
But it was all I could get. I didn’t dare to think of anything else. A touch is easy, other things are not. I knew it. I always know it. I just couldn’t stop making trouble. I was addicted. Bad.
I still run around. Whose heart is there to break?
Oh no. No one is sad anymore.
No one is allowed to be sad anymore.
- What not to do on a night out. (ariisworld.wordpress.com)
- The 5 types of drunk guys that hit on you at the bar (gingygang.wordpress.com)