i arrived in that nightclub
like an expired simile
suffering from wanderlust
and athlete’s doubt,
steeped in banana daiquiris
& debt-shaped libido.
they were playing music
that sounded like
an ocelot being exorcised
in 11/8 time.
my spine, a seismograph
for regret.
then—
Pax.
a humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa of a man,
angular, paradoxical,
a rorschach of masculinity
Masc in the biblical sense—
he wasn't trying to look at me.
he was waiting for me to stare
it was as if salsa had been conjured
solely for his gait.
he never approached.
he summoned.
and i complied.
his hand caught mine
like it was the end of a sentence,
no hesitation—
just a command.
we spun together—
hips,
bodies,
gravity.
his chest brushed mine
like an open invitation,
and I could smell it—
that heat,
the one that belonged to him
and no one else.
i was dizzy with his geometry.
hie arms around my neck
lips behind my ear
“bathroom.
now.”
it wasn’t a question.
he pressed me against cold tile—
that calcareous crucible—
with the kind of care
you’d reserve for surgical desecration.
his bra slipped off like a seraphic harness
revealing twin ectomorphic silhouettes,
orbs of human dough & statuesque cherries
androgyne relics kissed by friction
and gleaming like succulent punctuation.
he didn’t ask for permission.
he simply took.
his hands gripped my thighs,
lifting me,
guiding me to where his body needed me,
where I belonged.
my ****, a divining rod;
my thoughts, disheveled rooks
cawing in circles around his scent,
which was
old books,
new sin,
and the crushed-strawberry smudge of something surgical.
i didn't speak—
i just let him
consume.
my blood said: follow.
my pelvis said: now.
his words were no longer soft.
they came sharp,
*****,
like orders
more than a plea—
"You're mine."
and he wasn’t wrong.
he already had me
he threw his leg around mine
like punctuation at the end of a feral sentence.
we weren’t dancing—
we were ritualing.
he climbed onto me
like scaffolding,
pressed his whole glistening weight
against my need.
his *****, volcanic—
gripping my **** like
a molten vacuum
pulling the *** out of me
like he’d prayed for it
and the gods obliged.
i spilled.
big, hot, criminal.
a gluey slick,
it oozed,
thick and slow,
like molasses in a heatwave,
a lazy curl of liquid fate,
drenched in warmth
and too much need.
it sat in him—
clung like clingfilm
but thicker,
substantial,
like it planned to colonize,
a thick stretch of something primal,
not running,
but anchoring,
surrendering into him
like debt into bankruptcy
he smirked, exhaled,
and said—
in a voice like jazz bruised by bourbon:
“next week—
same time,
more ruin.”
