Oh, I can’t stand it. Now that my play date is delayed another week, I can simply think of nothing else. Any hesitation I might have had before has shattered into phantom sensation of his hands at the root of my hair, images of stilettos and blood red lips and coy stares across a hotel lobby.

But, not yet, and I digress.

***

What’s the point of going to a party if not to come home with another? I wasn’t even thinking of it Saturday night. I was thinking of how little clothes I wore, and the desolate walk there (already, strangers in a truck shouting something I’m sure they thought was offensive) and how terrible that might be when it became three am and I had to stumble home alone.

I met a cute blond girl on the way. She looked like Robyn, although I didn’t even realize it until her friends brought it up later. She was from Australia, and it was much nicer finding my way to the warehouse with her. Some point later, I had a flicker of hope that she was hitting on me, with her laughing question, “are you texting your boyfriend or something?” No, just updating twitter with details of what I saw. My mind snapped to fantasies of a night with her—but I didn’t allow myself. Surely that would have been too extraordinary. Too perfect.

I wandered. Inside, endless eye candy, strangers with inviting smiles and enthusiastic greetings and a slew of instant compliments. I had decided on the right clothes after all.

This—I needed the reminder. Why I was in New York. Why people clamored over Brooklyn. Underground culture (it existed, here, in the air, in the faces around me.) Minnie mouse performing a burlesque strip tease.

Big white cartoon gloves seductively torn off each finger. Bibles that burst into flames. Contortionists, clown detectives, masks and costumes and exquisite curiosities. Everywhere.

Then it was time for the music to drown out everything else, and the scattered crowds mold together, space erased, bodies moving (and they say that hipsters don’t dance.)

When I stumbled into him, in his intricate, colorful cardboard mask, it was mere exposure—he and his friends had been walking the opposite way when I headed over, and I heard one of them say as we passed, “I bet she’s going to the party!”

I was, and he remembered. We probably exchanged names. But the name didn’t matter, it was the glimpse of the eyes and lips beneath the mask that suggested someone I might like. We danced. And there’s something about dancing that is oblivious and innocent, and at once uninhibitedly sexual. Explicit, even, in the jerking of the limps, swirls of the hips. We danced closer, his hands grazed the small of my back. I spun with a hand in his.

Dancing, it tells a lot, you know? And that his enthusiasm and movements was up to par—rare. Dancing that led to him pulling me in, pressed against him, pressure of his fingers sinking into my skin. That dance.

That dance turns into leaning up and forward into a kiss, and trusting my instinct and the few glances of him under the mask. The dance floor kiss is a breed all on its own, uncertain, bold, vibrant. A kiss that turns into our faces breaking into smiles and dancing, again. Dancing that extends into caresses, hands that trail elsewhere, now and then gripping flesh and pressing it closer.

So there was that. Then there were the kisses that became starved, vicious, desperate, and movie scene worthy sweeping me down, bending me backwards. The exhibitionist in me delighted in the fact that we were on the dance floor, and inches away sat other party goers, some perhaps glancing in our direction. We weren’t being discreet, as his hand trailed up the thin fabric of my dress, in between my legs.

We danced for a long time, my heart fluttering faster, the longer, although I didn’t tire, I was ecstatic when he asked me to come home.

Coming home meant coming home to my apartment, although he too lived in the vicinity (after a confused instance where we both stopped in front of a house, waited, looked at it, looked at each other, until he finally asked if it was where I lived and I shook my head no! And thought it was his. But it was neither. Again, I digress.) Skip the small talk and unsure proceedings in a strangers home, I closed the door, we admired the photos on my wall. He pulled me in from my half kneel on the bed and pushed me down.

That was more like it.

***

We’re reading early American seduction novels for class, intended to moralize the wrong doings of easily seduced women who fall for charms rather than sound judgment. Story of my life.

This boy wasn’t one of those, though. He was sweet and giving (what a change), but not unsure, and completely ready to answer any of my requests. Too sweet, I suppose. But anyone who says an apology in the form of “I’m sorry I didn’t fuck your brains out” is okay by me.

Maybe next time, precious boy. And next time I won’t let you play so gentle when I want it rough.

PS: you forgot your boxers.