I dated this man in a whirlwind. We texted obsessively about music and books and our sexual boundaries for three days before meeting up in a bowling alley. I immediately clicked into all the ways I knew how to be with, flirt with, laugh with men. He sat closer than he needed to and I touched him incidentally. The way he sent zings through my body felt good and familiar. So, so familiar.
God, he was familiar. And then it hit me: He was my high school crush in a man’s body. Baggy Dickies and a hoodie. Hand-rolled cigarettes. Dropped out of school to work in a kitchen. Instead of pulling my hair, he just mocked my bad sense of direction.
Hi Sweetie!
You are happy when I pluck your swollen, sweet kernels and pop them into my mouth. You taste like school fairs, and summer and making out in grass fields. I don’t even mind that there’s no napkins for your melted, gooey mess: I’ll just lick you off my fingers. But I stop eating once I realize you are looking for someone to wash your dish.
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