Finding “Sexy” Without Sex.
I remember it very well, even though you pretend it never happened.
I remember the beer on your breath. I remember how that wasn’t all that I tasted in your cheek with my tongue; you tasted like stale beer, old cigarettes, and fear. You stank of fear.
I don’t blame you. You had every reason in the world to be terrified of me. I was just like you.
You, who constantly preyed on the weak and insecure, only to fulfill the abandonment they fought against when the sun rose. You, who had the lines down pat and breathed his role with every fiber of his breathing. You, who were dashing and unconventional, paying insincere comments to women in the hopes that you could woo them cheaply.
I was you. In a female form. Which, I suppose, is terrifying.
I remember how you clumsily groped my breasts as I felt your tongue along my lips. I remember thinking how, after all these years of admiring you from a distance, the truth was not as pleasant as I had dreamed. I remember trying, pleading, begging your tongue to just. slow. down. We were in no rush. We had all the time in the world.
I remember you sweating. Unnecessarily.
And I remember becoming bored with you quickly and ending it almost as soon as it had begun. I had better things waiting for me elsewhere. And you had your wife to go home to.
Sometimes, it does not take sex to make us feel sexy. Power, superiority, strength.. those will suffice. You made me feel sexy. I remember that. I remember you.
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