Breaking out – PG-32
A complete stranger, a real bad boy. He smelled of cigarettes. I don’t know if you have ever kissed a man whose lips have the hint of cigarette. And who had had a beer, Budweiser – the blue can, to calm his nerves down (he doesn’t do this often, he assures you; you don’t tell him you’ve never done this – ever. That you wouldn’t have thought you’d do this a year, six months, ago. That you’d stop being pissed off when a guy looks you up and down, “like he knows what you look like without your Shimmy”, as Scarlett O’hara would say. That you would start re-examining your childhood teachings: Why it is that you feel disrespected and not complimented when a man’s eyes say, “hey, I can go for that!”. Why it is you are no longer the girl you were as recently as a year ago, when you still believed someone would come, listen and wanna stick around despite your mediocre looks, despite your continuous self-awareness and self-criticism, despite your honesty. That you’ve been healed of your idealism through sweat, blood & tears). A cute guy with blue eyes, and dark circles around his eyes that makes him look fatigued and slightly menacing. A man with strong arms with bulging veins. He sits next to you, willing to bid his time. He takes your fingers in his hand, squeezes and kisses them reverently. He breathes nervously and waits while you caress those veins. You are feeling dizzy from the excitement of having him there (having actually allowed him to be there, having actually considered it and let it happen). And your fingers are communicating just that. He asks, quietly, while your shoulder pushes against his playfully; if he can kiss you now. “Can I kiss you now?” he whispers. And how can you resist? You let him kiss you. And he lets you kiss him back. Lips wrestle, tongues caress, teeth knocks against teeth. His breath is intoxicating, cigarette, beer, a male member of the human animal kingdom. Intimacy, warmth, desire. And the minted-gum you still have tucked underneath your tongue, the same flavor as his mouth-wash, which you’d almost choke on later. You whisper little nothings in between kissing and taking breath. He talks about how he liked the way your bra felt against his chest, you say how you missed being so close to another human-being, and wonder how you went for so long without it. Soon, you are tugging at the buttons of his shirt and he is trying to bring down the aforementioned bra. He wants only one thing from you. He’s never made it a secret. Yet, that doesn’t upset you in anyway. You throw all your teachings out the window, you kick caution outside the door (except, ofcourse, the cautious reminder to keep the rubber within reach), and let him take you where he’s been wanting to even before you met. You allow yourself to be led, willing and eager to follow. And then…
He is a stranger no more.
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