Flanders

There's another student who goes here. Flanders. Slim, nerdy and sensitive type. Like a lawyer from Georgia. He once told me that he could entertain the idea of loving a man romantically but he couldn't imagine trying anything sexually with one. He asked me what I imagined doing with him and I regret giving a sheepish and less than honest answer. If he asked me again what it was that I wanted i'd say this.

"So what do you want? To blow me or something?"

"Sure but I wasn't imagining starting there."

"Where would you start?"

Eye contact. To be quite frank I'd start with marking up that porcelain neck and jaw with purplish-red hickies and bruises. Fucker. I'd want you right on the precipice of pleasure and pain while I worked on unbuttoning maybe the first two buttons of your shirt before ripping the rest free. We'd hear the sound of plastic hail hitting the floor, a background chorus to applaud the new revelation of your flawless canvas... topography, my tools of inquiry; Touch, taste, smell, sight. I could make a career out of this, my zeal would suggest I only had the night. 

And that's where I would start. By the end I'd wake from my trance, my lustful stupor, a jumbled mess of limbs intertwined therein with yours. Windows turned foggy from our activities, some late hour of the night. And while you were there,  asleep soundly, I'd trace the lines of your muscles, feeling their density- imagining their strength. You do look so different without your glasses.