Intimacy. It comes in such little forms, and such big ones. If you think about it, there's intimacy in everything. The ignorance that most people possess about intimacy, is that it has to be sexual, or physical. It has to be with someone you're romantically involved with, and not a normal non-romantic relationship. People take the word intimacy and think: touch. They think: sex. When in reality, intimacy is just a rapport between two organisms. Nothing overrated. It can be beautiful and detailed and poetic. The forms of intimacy that takes place quotidianly, are ones that we sometimes don't even realize. A stranger you're riding the subway with. You make eye contact, and a soft blanket of awkwardness traps you two together.
Intimacy
. Sitting in the hallway of whatever institution you attend, typing something, writing something, reading something. Your delicate, fragile creative process interrupted by that gorgeous man you saw earlier walking down the hallway towards you to get to his unimportant destination. All that matters is those beautiful lips and that masculine strut.
Intimacy
. The feeling of buying something you've instantly fell in love with, with no regrets.
Intimacy
.
. . .
I walk into the windowless, dimly lit room. The only room in the house without a window. Empty. His presence makes it feel tinier than ever. With just the light casting in from the hallway, I am able to make out the shape of his muscular, sculpted back. I want nothing more than to dig my nails into it. The perfect shape of his back, penetrated by the white sheets, yellowing with age and usage. Usage. The word echoes in my mind as I approach his sleeping body. The pads of my feet hardly pressing against the cold wood floor. A floorboard creaks under my weight, and he stirs. I approach the bed, hovering over him. His eyes open softly, weakly, on their own accord. His unconscious body and I communicating with an unknown togetherness. As he comes to, I brace myself for the known. He smiles into his pillow, the side of his face still visible. The smallest, but brightest, most reassuring smile I long to see. The shuffling sound of sheets brings me back to myself, and away from my dangerous cave of a mind. He has sat up, facing me. His gaze isn't invasive. Or maybe it is. I like it either way. We make eye contact, and he places his hand on the small of my back, gently. I step forward, guiltily hoping that he'd save the slow moving intimacy and pipe me already. As if reading my mind, he hungrily leeches onto my neck, startling me. On instinct, my fingers coil themselves into the forest of his hair. As if alive, his sinuous bed-head curls reciprocate the action. He kisses me. I kiss him back. Before I have time to initiate, he angrily shoves his tongue into my mouth. Invasive, but wanted. I straddle his waist, making sure to forcefully place the pressure of my womanhood on his obdurate cock. He reacts instantly, sliding his hands down to my ass. He squeezes both, then taking a pause. I brace myself for what comes next. He slaps my left ass cheek so hard that I choke on my surrounding air. I then quickly take a sigh of guilty pleasure. I feel the soreness of a bruise coming on, and that only encourages me to continue.
