I started to write about our first night and the disappointment I felt when she turned me down for a walk home, then the second time I met with her and the extraordinary weekend that followed. I wrote specific details, bits of our conversation as dialogue, the way she took my personal problems with seeing women in stride…
But, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to deal with this build up and revelation. I don’t want a story here. In fact, this is a notice to myself.
What’s important is that this is about how much I want to fuck her. I do not want this fact to be in question. I do not spend my waking hours wondering about her life, her friends, her job. I think about her brown watery eyes when she’s masturbating. There’s the sweet bend of her white knees. I like how white she is. I like the fact that I’m fucking this pale girl who works as a clerk at a mall store. I’m thinking about just how she’s going to suck my cock at our next encounter after a kiss hello. Her teeth are dull. She used to smoke, she told me, which is why there’s a lingering hint of it in that entry hallway, next to the closet and light switch, next to which I’ll guide her down to my cock without speaking word one, and kiss her again afterward, reveling in the knowledge that she just took my cum into herself—glad to—and would go much further in that first several minutes if not for our preference to go out for a walk and maybe see a film before we return for a nightcap and as many more hours of my enjoyment of her as I can muster. This is what’s important. This is what’s going to be remembered. Fuck her like it’ll make her dreams come true.