The successful, fit, smart, confident, skinny, fashionable, perfect girlfriend… all the things society tells us we should be.
I am all things opposite- curvy, languid, emotional, messy, lost… all the things seen as weakness.
Him. The super fit, hot, sporty, successful, has-his-shit-together, guy. Cheat. Who crawls into my arms just so he can breathe.
No one would suspect it.
When I run my hands over his body, I can’t believe it’s real. Abs like that only exist in magazines. There are moments in between where shame creeps in. About everything. What we’re doing, the enormity of this secret, the potential devastation.
And then he pours himself into those cracks and fills them. Touches me… and I forget. Everything.
Teasing. Taunting. Electric. With a purpose that I don’t think even he is aware of.
Our bodies speak a language that our tongues are not privy to.
Devouring me like a man starved. And I, him. Sometimes he stares at me like a creature he has never seen. Something magnificent. And I wonder what it is that he’s missing, that he comes searching for in me. Enticing a self I always knew was there but could never reach, to the surface, so he can possess her if only for that moment. Is that it?
I’m not looking for love or validation.
He will never be mine, nor I, his.
Maybe that’s what makes him so safe.
** although it ruins the “shock value” intended, past experience has taught me that sometimes a disclaimer is wise, so: before you grab your pitchforks, please be aware this is fiction. For those who know my writing, you’ll be aware that sometimes I like to push buttons- my own included- and write about things that make us uncomfortable 😊.
***also- because I fear this has to be said… this isn’t an invitation. Just, No.