the Argentine

I was hungry. Starving, really. I took it out on his body. I didn’t mean to leave those marks on his body. They did make me smile when I woke and saw them. I remember the night before, but not in sequential order. I don’t remember having that much wine.

I remember the beat, the dancefloor, the other bodies, his body. His sexuality not at all ambiguous, thankfully. Neither was mine that night. I have no idea how long we danced without kissing. Three minutes? Ten? None at all?  We couldn’t even hear each other inviting the other home, the music was so loud, but we understood and left.

In the elevator he pushed me against the wall and kissed me more. I could barely get my door open. I pushed him onto my bed, still in our coats. I felt free, totally uninhibited, wanting to fuck, pushing his hands away then back.

Thinking back, I worry that I was too aggressive for him, and maybe I was. But he matched me. I barely remember, but I know he pulled off my shirt, my pants, my panties. They ended up in different spots on the floor. When I demanded more than he could give, he gave me what I wanted.

He fucked me with his hand, and I woke up deliciously sore. Perhaps better that way, less personal, we were both so vulnerable.