A Short Dress On Our Anniversary

3 min read

photo: SexArt

I bought you a black dress that was almost perfect. It had no sleeves, zipped up the front, and was tight and sleek.

I wasn’t thinking about the last gasp of winter on those mostly naked legs. I was too caught up in the thought of running my hands up your bare skin, as far as the world could see.

Maybe you forgot about our date. We planned it after drinking through our public inhibitions and kissing the night away at a club. You asked me to find a place where we could get away with more.

At least, I think that’s what you said.

I guess I got you what I wanted you to want on our anniversary. Your lonely dress is bunched up in the middle of the floor. We’re in a city that does sleep, and the clock ticks down on our celebration.

Try this again in another 20?

Dressing you up seemed like a weird way to celebrate the continuity of our love. But how do I show you that my candle still melts for you?

I don’t want you to be anyone else. Just a girl waiting in line at the greasiest cheesesteak stand around.

I’m fighting my way through a long line forming behind you. I want a peek at those beautiful butt cheeks tucked snug in a tight pair of jean shorts. Stonewashed and I’m ready to cheat. I’d find a way to get you back to my room before you could realize I was just a dirty old man.

I’ve been one ever since I can remember. Close the door and turn down the lights and you’ll see me for who I am. If I stayed this way on the outside I wouldn’t be able to hold a job. Call me a highly functioning pervert.

It’s a good thing we’re soulmates.

The dress now hangs in our bedroom closet. It’s even lonelier when you’re not around.

When you’re gone, it’s hard to feel centered when the tether constantly shifts between your mind, your heart, your spirit, and your holey places. It’s the carnal urges that feel the strongest in your absence.

I stumble drunk into a dark room wanting to see you sprawled out on the bed in a compromising position. I pull out a photo album and get stuck on a picture. It’s not our first date, a swing dance, or a picture of you in a virginal wedding dress. You pulled down your panties to show me your shaved pussy and the loveliest clit in the world.

Can I objectify you, just a little?

I want that clit to be licked tonight. I want that pussy satisfied. Whatever it takes.

I find some porn that captures my mood. I don’t get to the good part until I close my eyes and find a familiar tone in the huffs and puffs of an insatiable performer. I never last long when you make your guest appearance.

The cum hasn’t even spilled over my dirty hands, and terror begins to swell in place of my softening cock.

I’ll probably never know how close you came to bringing a guy —maybe two? — back to your room that night. You laugh off my probing questions, and I can’t tell if it’s to titillate or conceal guilt.

“How often were you horny?”

You laugh me off with a request. “Maybe you can pack me some toys next time?”

Only your reputation put you to bed alone, apparently. You didn’t think I would have cared if there was someone to keep you warm, you said.

It’s an odd way of describing how I feel. Maybe even depressing.

I’ll pack your toys for next time. Share them if you’d like. Just understand that my flirtation with openness requires all the empathy I can handle.

I feel like I was created to make you feel desired.

Maybe I’m the one who wants to be someone else.

I watch you with the eyes of a stranger who wants to corrupt you. This guy has the courage to drop a classy hotwife to her knees in a chic hotel room. He tells her to keep her glasses on as that hard cock taps her wanting lips.

There’s no need to hide the sky in your eyes when the cum erupts all over your pretty face.

The stickiness is everywhere. Will it ever wash away?

Even a Sandman gets tired sometimes. What happens to these dreams you’ve never made your own?

I struggle to find the midpoint between bored and overboard. I don’t really want to. But complexity makes me feel alone.

Our aspirations for each other are asymmetrical. Your hidden desires enchant me. Mine are aggrandized threats. Confessions that turn me on would more likely start a fight if they were mine.

Double standards have a short half-life.

We used to ask questions. Has the threat of answers scared them away, my love? It feels like we’re on a one-way track that never reaches its destination.

You’ve always liked roller coasters more than me. I guess I’m more of a metaphor guy. It’s disorienting in those rickety carts — the ups, the downs. My eyes tell me everything is going to shit. I close them and pray for survival. It’s a terrifying ecstasy.

Only fear can hurt us now.

Gravity awaits us at the end of the line.

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