Page 22 of Way Down Deep

And the don’t hold back just sealed the deal.

Now I’m typing this with one thumb, body thrumming, fingers teasing in all the good good places as I think about where I would like you to be. Though most of the time, I find I can hardly decide. I think about you lounging on my bed, mostly bare, expression full of all the experiences I’ve never had, and my clit jumps against my fingers.

But there’s something tempting about you dropping to your knees, too.

Burying your face between my legs, hungrily.

Hands spread over my ass.

Mouth already seeking me out.

Can you see yourself doing that, Malcolm?

If not, let me help you. Imagine finding me in the middle of my sparsely decorated living room, in nothing but an oversized jumper. It always slides off one shoulder, and grazes the tops of my knees. My legs are bare, soft, short, like the stalks of some succulent plant that’s been starved of the sun. My thighs kiss in the middle.

I have no underwear on.

And when you press your face there, you’ll find I have no hair between my legs, either. I keep myself smooth as silk there—made smoother by my own constant wetness. Because I am now, you know. Constantly wet, I mean. I wake up from sultry dreams filled with seething bodies, soaked all the way down to the tops of my thighs. When I walk around my apartment, I can feel it; when I slide a finger inside myself, it’s easy.

Do you like the thought of it being easy?

Of putting your hand there and finding me slippery?

I like to think you would—that you would jolt all over and look up at me, shocked to discover that such an innocent little thing could be so aroused. But then I wonder if it would just spoil any illusions about me and the kind of person I am. Maybe you thought that closing myself off from everything meant that I had never fully learned how to crave.

And yet when I think of you looking at me like I should be ashamed…

Somehow that only makes me want to be worse. It sends a shudder through my body. Suddenly my cheeks are flushed to the point of unbearable. And most importantly: my finger is moving fast now on my clit. So fast, in fact, that I’m going to have to leave you there, to see to it.

I’ve only got enough good sense left to ask:

Which of those men would you be, Malcolm?

Forget what I want. Tell me who you are.

6.21am

You can’t hurt me, stranger. There’s ugliness in my everyday life and there’s ugliness in sex, but one starves me while the other fills me up. So never fear. There’s so much light in the dark places you want to go with me.

I don’t even know where to start with the things you said. I want to do ten thousand things to you, but I have to pick, now don’t I?

Fuck, you and your jumper. The fact that I had to Google “jumper British def” to even be sure what it meant. I thought it was a dress, but no.

I picture a man’s sweater, overlong, falling off your shoulder like you said. I imagine it’s mine. I imagine coming home and finding you in my living room. I don’t know who you are, only that you’re there in my apartment, dressed in my sweater with your bare, plump, porcelain legs, birdlike hands, wide eyes. They grow wider as I come near. Even I don’t know what I’ll do until I’m doing it.

I ask who you are. You don’t answer, lips pursed tight. (What do those lips look like? Tell me. I’d give anything to know.)

My question becomes a demand, and you say you’re nobody.

In truth, I don’t care who you are. All I care about is that you’re here, and you’re mine to do with as I please.

I take a step closer. Too close. You take a step back. Step for step, until your calves hit the couch and you fall, land with a soft bounce on the center cushion.

I like the sight of you staring up at me with that mix of fear and anticipation in your stone-blue eyes.

A hundred ideas flash through my mind for what to do with you.

To you.

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