burn

I poured kerosene all over the bridge between us. The bridge I helped rebuild so strong. The bridge that was getting shorter and shorter, pulling us closer. I pour kerosene all over it, then I threw the match and watched it burn. She was on the other side yelling something at me. “It’s ok. But I was just rolling with the punches. You know this isn’t just my fault.” Then the flames ate her words and hid her face.

“Do you know how many times you’ve brought up Blake on this trip?” My dad asked me.

“I know, I know!” I answered. We were taking a cab home from dinner the last night of our vacation together.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Say it, say it!” I told him, needing to hear it again. Needing to hear what my best friend had told me.

“There’s nothing to say.” He said simply.

She’d been sleeping over, we’d been holding each other. “I know this blurs the lines,” she said, “I don’t want to hurt you again and I don’t want to be hurt.” I thought I could keep my emotions in check. I thought we could have this. Somewhere between platonic and romantic. No sex. As Jaden said to me when I called her for advice, “sex complicates everything anyway.” Apparently, so do feelings. Maybe I could sleep with other people and just love her. The thought crossed my mind.

I made the mistake of mentioning that I had a date one night. She was so excited for me, like a Jewish mother who’s kid hadn’t had a date for years.  It was weird. It seemed fake. What had I wanted? Her to be disappointed? To fake a “oh that’s nice.” I’m not sure. I guess I just didn’t want to hide my date and see how she’d react. Well, I hated how she reacted. And I countered with that kerosene. She was on vacation with her family. It was probably cruel of me. I know it hurt her. I know it hurt me. Better to burn that bridge than watch it disappear and just merge though, right? I told her, “You don’t know what you mean to me. I know this is my fault. I’m sorry.” Burn baby, burn. 

Gay man

His fingers dug into the flesh around my hips. He’d done this before. The night we’d both made out with other people, both matching our own sex. His left and mine declined my advances. We were both second choices for each other. He grabbed me on the dance floor. His hand across my belly, lightly at first, then with more force when I encouraged him with my hand on his. He intertwined his fingers with mine as he pulled on my hips. He walked me home and we kissed on the cheek, both laughing at the tension and I went into my apartment alone.

He woke up in the same man’s bed only yesterday. But I don’t care, not the way his hands are on my body. He’s tall, but he bends his knees enough so that I feel him through his pants against me, and we might as well be fucking. He becomes more timid when I turn to face him. Even in my heels, my head only comes to his shoulder. He is thin, I didn’t think he was attractive at first, but he’s reeled me in with this ambiguous flirtation. Now I want him. I’ve been wanting to fuck a gay man anyway. He doesn’t advertise his attractions, he likes to remain ambiguous, to receive the attention from men and women. I’m growing tired of the flirtation, and of playing with my food, I want to eat already.

The fantasy

I whisper in his ear, “you’re going to take me home and fuck me, or you need to stop.” He smiles, surprised at my bluntness. Turns his head just enough to kiss me, finally. It feels as though I will devour him with my mouth, my body’s hunger having no other way to express itself in this dark room full of people with the music so loud I might as well be deaf. He pulls away, “let’s go.” On the street we look like two gays, laughing, walking to another club together. In the elevator I pull him against me again and our bodies are eager for each other. Right to my bed, he moves against me like he did only a few minutes ago, but this time horizontally, still clothed. I feel his hard cock straining against his pants, my other hand behind his neck, still devouring him with my mouth. Am I attracted by his eagerness? Am I flattered that he’s attracted to me? Do I feel like I’ve won the game? Or am I intrigued by his artist side, by the danger that he’s in my grad program? It doesn’t matter, his skin is against mine now. He teases me about my flogger he knows I keep under the bed, “that’s for repeat offenders only,” I tell him, just wanting him inside me already. I reach for the toy bin anyway which is where I keep the condoms. Then I devoured him with the rest of my body. When it was over, he asked if he should go. I told him he better stay because I wanted seconds.

The reality

My out-of-town friend was in town, so he went home alone that night. He came over the next night with another mutual friend. I made dinner. He made dessert. He wrestled me for my phone, a teenage excuse to feel me up. Not that I minded. If our other friend wasn’t there we wouldn’t have kept it platonic. He stayed to do dishes, but made no indication he wanted to stay more, and I didn’t risk the question. His history playing with people is too dangerous, I’m too proud to risk being made a fool of for sex. This is what I get for pursuing the sexually ambiguous.