Current mood:	horny
Current music:	why can't i be you//the cure

two night stand
"sing to me".

he makes this request, though he has no reason to believe i have any singing ability whatsoever. he doesn't know me.

i put my arms around his shoulders, and let my hands play in the small hairs on the back of his neck. his gum smells like berries...blackcurrants. he's chewing gum, but he doesn't take it out when he sips his pint of beer. i remember this quirk from our last encounter.

i don't seriously consider singing to him, partially because the pub is too loud to be heard anyway, but mostly because "jenny from the block" comes on. it doesn't matter. i take my cardigan off because i'm sweltering. the heat of too many drunk, sexually frustrated people dancing. he eyes me appreciatively. i'm not used to standing up under the scrutiny. i turn my eyes away from his, because though i'm wearing a black camisole, i feel naked already. "i like your shirt," he suggests to the air. he knows he's scared off a skittish animal and is testing out bait to lure it back. i let the statement hang for a moment. i turn to face the dancers, scan the room, let the strobe light hypnotize me for a split second. and then i kiss him again.

we leave together, his arm around me, and as i walk past my friends who have a table near the door, i feel like i know something they don't.

*

lying naked on the couch. we fucked in the living room, in front of all my windows. while making out in the street my front door opens on to, he called me an exhibitionist. i suppose i don't really know enough about myself to agree or disagree with that assessment. his hand idly wanders up my thigh, and lingers, stroking the hairless skin. i hate my thighs. i can't even look at his hand there. "your parents are from philly, right? you told me that last time...", he says, squinting, as though remembering that fact is something like trying to look into the sun. i nod. he waits, maybe hoping i'll offer up more information, anything to help him pin me down. "so, what's your story," he finally asks.

i know it's just a saying, but it stops me. i don't know if i have a story. i'm 21, and i feel like i should know the answer to this by now.

and if i decided to reply with words instead of more sex, i guess i'd have said: i'm still working on character development, but the plot is definitely getting more and more interesting.