His body. I covet with the intensity of one who has borrowed and must give back.
A constant reaching, a constant touch. This need for tactile reassurance of his presence over-powering my borders and my limits.
You have a wall around you – what was that they said? I have smashed this wall myself, frantic, fingers pulling at any barrier between us. God, I can’t get close enough. I bite and scratch and wrap my arms and legs about him. I tell him he is mine. I invoke possession as the law.
I am watching how his fingers wrap around this glass right now, how they slide over the surface of his menu. I watch and feel those fingers in places they have been, my skin sears with the memory of his touch. I think, in the middle of our entrée, those fingers have been inside me. That mouth has been here, and here. I lean across the table and say this sweetly in his ear.
My eyes are wide as I kiss him with an open mouth. Other patrons stare, it’s not that kind of restaurant he says but his eyes watch me as I leave the table and it takes only seconds for him to follow.
Dinner at a pleasant restaurant, we are any other couple. And before the mains have arrived we are fucking in the men’s bathroom because I cannot bear those hands to touch anything but me.