Walk and talk with me, would you?
Late sunday night. I’ve been scrolling streaming services and randomly changing content for hours now. It looked like it was going to rain. It didn’t. I’ve made toasts and coffee a while ago, been swiping around Twitter for a glimpse of entertainment. Took a dump, had a shower. I ran to my bedroom and took a shot at an online sex chat, had a video call with this dude from Seattle, I guess, saw his dick, we jerked off for a while, but he disconnected before we finished. I’ve never finished. Sundays are supposed to be slow lazy days, right?
I pick up my phone. I still don’t know what would have been like have I never called you. I don’t know what would have been like have I ever went on that Tuesday night date with you. I panicked, I confess. I used all my tools and effort trying to actually allow me to connect with somebody but chickened out hours before we should meet. I think I’m still hurting from my last attempt of getting close to somebody else. Plus, I’ve been avoiding the idea of actually having someone in my bedroom. Getting naked in front of someone can be too invasive. It’s hard to fuck somebody you want to get to know, it’s even harder to fuck a stranger. It is way easier to have a different guy every night in the other side of the screen, from the other side of the world. Lately, I’ve seen too many dicks to count.
But I digress. It would be better to be walking and talking with somebody else right now than laying here in my bed holding my floppy sad penis. So, I text you. “Walk and talk with me, would you?” You ask when. Fifteen minutes. And there I am, my hands in my pockets. A little bit of cold, a little bit of fear. It’s almost ten o’clock when you turn around the street. I see you coming. I think about fleeing for dear life, my feet would not respond. We walk. Didn’t your mom teach you not to go see mysterious strangers late sunday night, I ask, as a joke. You get it’s a joke. I wonder if in two hours you’ll be in my bed. I ponder if I can handle that, maybe I just wanna a friend to talk and then I can go back to my ‘jerking off with strangers online’ routine, maybe I can still finish that one I started before. And then you get the Zane Lowe reference. I’m hooked.
We talk for three hours. I wanna kiss you, I don’t know how or when to do it. We walk back to my street. You say we should meet again, for coffee this time, for real. I agree with you. You keep waiting, I keep failing. I’m gonna kiss you, I say. You nod with your head. We kiss. It’s slow, wet, tender, charged. I offer you coffee. “Where can we get coffee now”, you ask. We come up to my apartment. We do have coffee, but that’s not really the goal. We get to bed and have all sorts of intimacy a first date would allow. It’s like somehow, I’ve been waiting for you for quite a while.
You’re sound asleep now. I watch you sleep for a little while. Your shape under my sheets, the feel of your hands and head in my chest, the way your body feels pressed against mine. If I was ever capable of falling in love, that would do. You wake me up. We do it again. It’s insane how easy it feels to be with you. You go home. I want you to come back in the night. Monday late afternoons are way more likely for a date than sunday nights. But I digress. Walk and talk with me again, would you?
