- Italicized phrases from the song “Slow Motion” by Third Eye Blind
I guess I didn’t mean it, but man you shoulda seen it. We drove through the star-polluted night going ninety-five down 95 – well, he did. I sat. Motionless. Clenching the Sky in my sweaty palms as the car beat in rhythm with my heart. Music blasted while I poisoned my veins, anticipating them to be filled further. We arrived and parked nowhere as the liquor blacked out my life. He jumped, an unwanted Spiderman hero here to breakdown my hardened womb. Enter. Trapped in neon light halls, white walls surround us. He’s lost, and I follow. A recipe for disaster as he sings, “but girl, if you would let me, I’ll take your pants off.” I let him, maybe? I told myself I wouldn’t lose this time. Images float in when it’s over, when it’s done. He leaves my side and I lie there alone in quiet space, more alone than when I am flying solo. Regret stained all over the bed as I poke his tender skin.
“Come cuddle,” I say.
“Hold on,” his deep voice coarsely replies, yet he never comes (I guess we have something in common tonight). Heart hollow, I lay my spinning head against foreign sheets, not flesh. Sunken hope surrounds me. Maybe we’re both young urban psychopaths.
At 9 a.m., the sun rises a most beautiful ruby red. His smile wakens my tired eyes, permeating butterflies into my dehydrated system. And I too, smile back. He holds me with forearms that are softer than any felt before. Yet his muscles look all too familiar. Gentle and dangerous? They always go hand in hand. Sweat trickles down my un-toned body as we begin to make lust. Lips lock and he tastes sweet despite our un-brushed teeth and day-old bodies. I want him. His gaze radiates wetness between my legs, though I hardly remember him drinking me last night. Delicious. What other word is there for breathtaking first encounters? Sigh, oh my. We bury our souls inside one another, orgasms for breakfast. Luscious, our flesh explodes. Later bathing in the afterglow his touch is missed already, even though his masculine palms clenched my baby-bearing hips three seconds prior. Will it fade? Too scared I am, for he seems imperfectly perfect.
We go back the way we came, ninety-five, driving slow, not wanting to leave the irreplaceable sweet scent of passion mixed with incense and Nantucket Nectars to quench thirst and panting. Five days young together. What is he to me? What will he be? I can’t tell, I can never tell. Slow motion. See me let go (aaahh). Oh yeah…