I slip my lacy, aqua-colored thong down over my hips just before dropping them to my ankles and tiptoeing each foot out. He was resting against the wall on the far front of the twin-size mattress that took up all but too much space in his pathetic dorm room. I didn’t mind all that much though. Tequila had guided my night from start to finish–playing kings in the common room, dancing blisters onto my ankles via my new leather, strappy heels, all the way back to campus in a ride-alone Uber just to find myself at his door, again.

I’m sure his night was just the same.

He answered the door in one of his nicely collared button-downs (a few too many buttons down) and a favorable pair of khaki pants that would soon be gripped and ripped off in a rush by my drunken impulses, only to expose a pair of plaid boxers and a little something else poking through. Plaid is my favorite.

My favorite part of sex is not the climax, or the foreplay, or even the act. It’s actually a particular moment. Steve and I sloppily undressed one another–his hands running around my waste, hips, ass, and his lips gently pressing against my neck then shoulder. As I stand there in my underwear and him in his boxers, there’s always a brief pause–a pause where the only sound comes of our touching and the sensation of him fills whatever emptiness I showed up with that night.

So often I feel a pressing desire to obtain attention and feel fancied, lusted after even. But this desire is not fulfilled by a kiss or touching, or sex itself. It’s a moment in time where there is a sudden pause, I look into his eyes, and the touching slows.

His hands slowly ran down my sides, and I backed him into his bed only for him to attentively watch me as I slip my thong off and slowly walk to him.


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