We are back in the flat before I realise where this is going.
As we reach the door, instead of opening it, you lean against it. You put your hand on the back of my neck. I slide towards you. The liquor still burns at the pit of my belly. I concentrate to focus. Your mouth is pink and full. You smile lopsidedly, pulling my head towards you. Our lips brush. My mouth tingles. Your lips are impossibly soft. I taste tequila and salt.
Your body against mine. Angles of hip jut into each other. We tune into the soundless music of ten thousand generations. I feel as though I am watching from far away. Our bodies search for a point where we lock together.
I grip your waist just above where your jeans cling to your body. Your legs go on forever. You look down and close your eyes. You move my hands until my thumbs are on the nubs of your hips. I pull you towards me this time. Your mouth makes a silent ‘o’.
Your spuctheema wriggles out from under your white cotton tee-shirt. It glistens rainbow colours in the low wattage of the hallway and caresses my cheek. My body lights up. I hold my breath. My mind wonders if this is going to be how they said it would be. I want to be able to feel this moment. I wish I hadn’t drunk so much.
Your tongue flicks out of your mouth and wraps around my neck, warm and wet. My pulse throbs in my arteries as you taste me. I push my hand down into your jeans unpopping the buttons. I reach past the elastic of your knickers to your cuch. The fallopian pad is smooth and glossy, spines retracted. My finger tips play across them and your tongue tightens around my neck. Purple flowers bloom in my field of vision.
On your throat, the thick lips of your skaktum part. Quivering and blue.
“Say my name,” you whisper through it.
“I want you, Eric,” I say.