On Sleeping With Sad Boys
My cheeks hurt and I hate that these are these are the kinds of words that elicit the best response from me, swellings of pride in my chest; as if I’m actually skinny enough for someone to comment on it.
My cheeks hurt and I hate that these are these are the kinds of words that elicit the best response from me, swellings of pride in my chest; as if I’m actually skinny enough for someone to comment on it.
I got on the L at 6th Ave. You were giving me the once over through the window before the doors opened so I could get on. You gave up your seat for old ladies and we stood next to each other on the way to Brooklyn.
I remember the shame of her mom walking in shortly thereafter and telling me I had to go home. My shame intensified when, instead of getting angry, my mother gently told me not to take my clothes off at other peoples’ houses.
School picked up right where it left off after Aaron moved. Fina and I spent an increasing amount of time together, lamenting the absence of our over-protective do-gooder.
The mound of soft hair beneath the cotton caught me off guard. This was my first exposure to a viable thicket of pubic hair in the wild, both intimidating and sexy now that it was attached to a young, lithe body instead of the older women changing in YMCA locker rooms.
“Hey, nice to meetcha. I’m Preston.” I give him the once-over. He’s pale and skinny, wearing leather loafers without socks and khaki shorts. His outfit is better suited for a day at the docks than an evening of East Village bar slumming.
When it comes to the lurid details, there is a fine line between poorly written romance novels and the admittedly boring reality: sex is seldom glamorous.
He suggested I meet him for a drink in SoHo; a curious offer on his part, given he didn’t know what I looked like. To be fair, my impression of him was based on icon-sized photos attached to social networking profiles and strings of author bios…
As we near our destination, we’re stopped by three attractive strangers who hold us up long enough to necessitate introductions. I catch the gleeful look in Alex’s eye upon their approach. I know I’ve signed up for a night worth remembering, so I follow her lead as she proceeds to lie about just about everything.
“Working out again?” I ask with feigned idleness.