Phantasmic Fuck

Forty-five minutes after swapping dick pics, he’s hooking a thumb through my cheek. A bite and a kiss whispers on his index knuckle like a little incubus. I can already feel it, but a quick look down confirms a glassy string swinging toward the gloss. I let my calves rest for a sec but the blur of his pelvis doesn’t struggle to hold my weight.

     Between the deafening pants, my skin that is one raw nerve, and the Brazilian flag on his Grindr profile: I am hidden somewhere. If there’s a language we both speak, we are not now fluent. There’s a kind of freedom in relying on primal instinct and body language alone. He doesn’t ask, he simply does.

     Scuffed feet on the landing... His housemate haunts us from outside the bedroom door. All the decibels seem to levitate above us, even our breath is too loud to let escape. Footprints float out of earshot. He falls out of the 1 – 2 rhythm for a flash. Must be close.

     He steals all of the oxygen in the room with his open-mouthed spasm dance. I feel the licks of air climb my spine. Shaky lips wisp my back: ‘thank you’. His fingers tip-toe across my hip to lend a hand, but the housemate has thrown me off. Straightening, I wave him off: ‘never mind’.  

     I locate my clothes with professional speed and start peeling them back on while he’s lighting up a cigarette. He motions toward me: ‘want one?’

     I take one, placing the first word in the room, “cheers”. He places a finger to his lips and nods in recognition. I lose, apparently.

     Joining him at the window, I spark up and blow out a long breath of woolly smoke. I could’ve found comfort in not having to come up with small talk if he weren’t doing it with his hands. He points to a scar on my stomach. Another wave: ‘long story’.

More scuffing of feet on the landing. I take another drag, unthreatened. I can see in his face that he’s casting Portuguese banishing spells at the door with his dark eyes.

     Knock. Knock. Knock.

     The sound collapses back into the room.