He’s above me, outlined in the light from the window, the stripe of Mohawk flat against his skull. His jawline melts me. His shaft is curved. More than I’ve seen on the bulk of men I’ve slept with, and even those I haven’t.
He’s in me. He’s rolling his hips, all the blood in my body is moving to my face or my crotch. He strokes, slow, deep, parting me. Moves fast, then slow, then fast. An open palm swings towards my face again and again. White sparks float in my eyes. Slow, slow, fast. Fast. Fast. Slow. Slow.
His sheets are an emerald teal, all bunched up in the center, striped from the moonlight coming through the blinds. His pillow is stained. Purple and red dye in his lazy man’s mohawk.
They’re so much hotter down than up. Up is unwieldy, up is vain, up is inefficient.
Down calls to me. Teases me.
He tells me to get off the bed and lean over it. Standing doggie. He slides back into me, grabs my hair, shoves my face into the mattress. I rest my knees on the bed frame, eventually bending them to lift my feet off the floor and change the angle of my pelvis. Fast, fast, slow. Fast.
Back on the bed. I lay on my back and tuck my knees into my chest. He enters without using his hands, a slow, sure glide, slipping over my clit. I feel full, I feel complete, like everything in the universe is about this moment, is about him being buried in my body, my hair tangled around his fingers, the complimentary arches of our spines as we drive towards each other.
He cums in this position.
We drove around town the day before. He commandeered the radio. Filling my car with bands I had never heard of, bands from all over the world. All of this knowledge. He would search for songs he thought I would like, tell me all about them, about the musicians, the singers, the lyrics, about where in the world he was when he saw them perform or how he was introduced to their music by some happenstance.
I took him to Sunken City. It’s a coastal neighborhood that collapsed into the ocean in the 1920s, when too much oil was piped out of the beach cliffs and the land decided it had had enough.
We climbed around the ruins with a dozen strangers. People are tagging the broken pieces of asphalt, climbing down the cliffs to the beach, shooting videos on their phones. I sneak a picture of him perched atop a rock. He’s wearing gray pants whose button I sewed back on in the parking lot, a black shirt with a skeleton torso print on it, his hair back in a ponytail, and sunglasses.
Each time I look at him, I want him. I want his face, his nose, his bone structure, the scruff that lines his jaw, the shaved sides of his head, the brightly streaked mane. I want to crawl all over him and have him make me his. Make him mine.
When I reach up to run my fingers over my latest tattoo, I smell him. It’s this sort of musky, warm, bury-your-face-in-his-skin scent. I respond so strong, so goddamned strong. It’s hard not to just curl up in bed with myself, inhaling at my wrists. I move and it wafts straight into my nose. My body wakes.
I feel his bamboo sheets under me, him beside me, the light streaming in through gaps in his blinds, the hardwood floor beneath my bare feet when I walk into the kitchen, him sliding between my legs in the shower, his flawless straight teeth, his perfect smile, the white hairs that have slowly invaded his stubble, the curl of his chest hair, the imperfection of his skin, the scars on the inside of his left bicep that I have not yet asked about, the weight of my sleep mask on my face, him tickling my nose with his hair while my eyes are closed, his hands shooting out towards my waist so I squeak. I feel these things, every moment humming.
He’s a man of music. When he introduces me to a new song, a new sound, I hear it in him, I hear it shaping him into who he is. The laugh, the movement, the erratic and unusual conglomeration of all the things that have combined within his skin. If I laid my head above his heart, would it beat in 3/4 or something else — something stranger?
Part 2 of 3 feature installments in the Hooksexup series Case Files: Exploring bedrooms and the men who inhabit them.
