Open the door. Stranger standing there. Do they look the same? Is something off? You say hi. They say hey. You lead. They follow. Silence ensues. Entering the bedroom, the expectation is suffocating, tangible, and the only thing left to do is take it off. Take it off, and strip down to the core. Naked. Open. Bearing all. …And that’s it. They leave in the same manner they entered, and you retreat back to the scene of the crime.
And that right there is the seed in which the slick plant grows from. Grows and wraps around your torso, up your back, trying to reach the final destination of your brain. Because you just need touched. Right? That touch. It holds something for you. Maybe it’s acceptance. Maybe it’s trust. Maybe it’s power. Maybe it’s to make up for whatever you have trouble bringing into your life on your own.
You’re a hopeless romantic. Something’s off if the man you care for isn’t surrounded by at least one candle which you’ve carefully placed and lit. Coffee in the morning is a necessary and vital part of showcasing your love. Adventures are meticulously conceived as a way to listen and communicate. Water is always by the bed before turning out the lights. This leads to the sex that is electric because you’re a fucking freak who is obsessed with every single inch and will make it known by your tongue and the lips that conceal it.
…but you hook up. Because it’s better than true silence. Its better than nothing.
But it’s not better than you. You’re basically the best of the best of the best.