I’m thinking that this is a season for flings and freedom. I have an ex-boyfriend in California I still love, an old hookup I lust for each morning in between states of sleep, and more than one boy in Boston to look forward to come fall. Relationships are too fatiguing for a late-riser.
I want fluff off the tops of cake and nothing filling from the layers beneath. I’ll pass on your keen intellectuals, your marathon conversationalists, your waterside meanderers. I want boys with beautiful skin, firm hands, and knowing eyes. I want words mouthed, not spoken, and I want torsos sinking along with thoughts into my bedroom’s dark crevices. My feet demand a guide across foreign pavement but all my ears need are laughter to follow when the bright lights make the color bleed against my eyelids. I want to linger at the traffic light with fingers in coarse curls and palms against solid shoulder. I want to taste freckles because I’ve never had them. I want to prick my tongue on cayenne and tease out strange men’s names and tell you that mine is Jane. I want you, but just for a day. Or maybe a week, if you are lucky. And then I want your friend. If she is lucky.
But this is not about sex, you see, because I can hold off on satiating the carnal. My lust is precipitated by “wander” and baby, the only burn I feel is my crisp skin beneath the sun. I am holding a one-way ticket to nowhere, with Kennedy on my mind, laptop on my thighs, and next to me, an empty seat.