You say you won't share me. Not that Iíve asked. Not that I would know what to do if you said you would. What you donít know is that you already areÖ
You see that woman there? The Latina in the low red shoes and too-tight jeans? The one eating her hair and tapping her foot and looking-not looking-looking not seeing at the two of us? Iím fucking her. And sheís tangling those flushed fingers in my hair, bitten nails scraping through the strands, eyes still everywhere but my face. Her fingers are in my mouth now-- how can you not see this?
My hands are peeling away that knock-off designer blouse, teeth sharp against hard nipples, hands once again tight in my hair-- Iím fucking her, see? My mouth is hot against the curve of her hip, my hands running over the swell of her small, pert breasts, the sensitive flesh in the bend of her arm.
Look, sheís arching up now, my impatient hands tugging away the sweat-soaked denim of her jeans, cupping her ass for a moment before dragging ruined scraps of lace down warm, dusky thighs. Watch me. Watch me bury my desperate, expectant face between those eager thighs. Watch her whimper and tremble and quake for me. Iím fucking her. Iím--
ďBabe, the pictures are ready. Letís go.Ē You take me by the hand like a child and pull me towards the door. And hair-girl looks but doesnít look and looks but doesnít see and you donít even think about looking because you wouldnít see anyway.
And your hand is on the doorknob and my hand is in your hand and, arching, I stretch my fingers at hair-girl, connecting her to this human daisy-chain by sheer will. Then weíre outside and the sun glares against the glass and halos hair-girl and itís noon and your shadow swallows our feet, sinks into my toes and crawls up my spine in shivers.
My hair falls in my eyes and you turn just in time to catch my chin in your hand, your long fingers deftly tucking the rogue strand behind an ear. And I forget about hair-girl, forget about your eyes on your own fingers instead of meeting mine, our bodies connected only by wisps of something long dead.
In that moment, youíre enough.