Live Through This
I’m on my bed, under the covers, and my boyfriend is kissing my neck. He lifts my shirt, lowers his face. My heart is beating, beating, beating. I want him to do more, go further. I don’t tell him—I don’t say anything at all—but he figures it out and slides his hand way down. My whole body is on fire in the best possible way. Especially there. Right there. I tug on his boxers and he sighs.
I start awake.
A hint of cologne. Soft breathing. Darkness. It’s real. This is all happening. But not with the imaginary boyfriend from my dream.
My hands, my arms, my frame go limp. His fingers keep doing what they’re doing. Soon this will be over. I keep my eyes shut and hold my breath while the wave builds and builds and builds and builds and then—the wonderful, terrible crash.
It doesn’t matter that I tried not to tense up; he knows.
Somehow, he’s always been able to tell. Gently, he kisses my cheek. Then he stands, straightens my blankets, and closes the door behind him.
I press my pillow onto my face and wish that it were possible to suffocate myself.