He Comes, You Leave
He lies down, eyes scanning the ceiling. It’s white enough for a screen so he flashes thoughts of last night.
You are still in his bed, under him so that all he sees is his back moving up and down and up and down. Your clothes wrinkle against friction but you insist on dry sex. Then, an argument of whispers. Warm breaths mixing with the heat of your bodies. He agrees, but not really, because he has clever hands.
Soon there is a crease on his damp forehead. He speaks incomprehensibly, as if not knowing what to say, how to say. You hush him, because you know from experience what this is about. You gently pierce your gaze into his and say, Almost there too. Lying has become your cup of tea, or coffee, it doesn’t matter. What does is you succeed every time.
So he rubs harder. You are amazed at how you manipulated him just like that. Some men require drama.
In reel life, on his white ceiling screen, you end up sleeping in a tangled heap. In real life, he comes, you leave.
