in medias res

when he opens the door, you are on top of me in the chair, straddling me, open legged brazen vigorous and lovely. the door closes, and my fingers are still clutching your behind while you dismount me, unhorsing or getting off the saddle like a practised rider in fluid movement to pick up your shorts. your demeanour says you know what it means to fuck. but in my mind i know you know nothing of it; not that i know of anyway. in my mind's eye it is your first time.


why would you even be here though, on me in my chair gracing me with your body... you'd never give me the time of day or look at me. it must be a dream, this vision i have. your dream. you wake into the dream, inexplicably already on me, feeling me inside you, rocking you you rocking me. else i would never have you. i invade your dream, to stand any chance of invading your body or heart. how else could we get to the scenario, after all. i have to hijack a dream to make your hips rock and rotate on me. maybe you'll like it. maybe you'll be overtaken by sensation and forget what kind of loser i am.

maybe i just want the image: you in a t-shirt naked from the waist down, legs spread wide riding, round firm cheeks bucking in my hands either fast or slow, head turned to one side overshoulder to look at the open door lips just parted. you are shouldered, athletic and long, toes pointed to the ground, the t shirt that you wear is small, any t shirt you wear always emphasises your youth and longness. maybe i want that image, which even if it ever happened i could never see. you rise off me like the truth: that i could never have you.

but i want it, want to feel you bucking me like a bronco, deep inside you feeling you feeling me clutching you, feeling your weight on me and kisses fast and sweet, your small breasts bouncing and a t-shirt that only emphasizes your nakedness and which i'm going to remove any second.

maybe it's a wake up, even if we got anywhere close you'd wise up and get up get going before i got to complete anything, i'd never get to the heart attack intensity of coming inside or slipping out and pushing your head down mouth open baby your reluctance subsumed under my abandonment.

i pray it's a sign, a hint, a pheromone signal that your body betrayed the last time i breathed your air. a sign, that you are not as innocent as you should be, not as unschooled unlearned unphysical as i think. every woman has a secret history of lovers, if your history has started already perhaps it could deign to include me; but i will hate every one before me, even though i may reap the benefit of them having lowered your standards to accept me.

i can pray or imagine or wish but it means nothing, in the middle of things.