intergalactic space traveler cont.

I don’t mind you coming here/and wasting all my time/I guess you’re just what I needed my heart beats gladly to the beloved long-ago song as we talk drink smoke laugh kiss touch fuck and it’s seamless, he’s dashing and fun and no holds barred and the cherry on top that blows my mind: he holds me really tight as we fall asleep. I wake up the next day and he’s still plastered to my body, warm, sweaty, fragrant, unbelievable. I don’t mind you hanging out/and talking in your sleep/I guess you’re just what I needed/just what I needed the joyous song is still on repeat as I discover that even getting up and leaving him behind is easy; by the time I hit the kitchen, I’ve already moved on.


When he rolls in I’m on my second coffee, third cigarette, in my office, hard at work. This should be ground control’s exit cue but instead he loiters about, knitting his handsome brow and nursing a cup of java. In short, all signs indicate that he’s about to make a royal ass out of himself. Something has triggered his fear of losing face, and a man in fear of losing face is a beastie about to charge out of his lair. Sure enough I won’t ask for your number because I don’t want it so I’ll give you mine, but if you call me and I don’t give you any juice please don’t take it personally OK? and he writes it down in extra LARGE, extra bold strokes that scream do yourself a favor, please trash me right now!


Right! God forbid I should mistake it for some actually relevant piece of information. Fast forward by 15mins. to where I take a blissful dive back into the only thing that matters, i.e. making my screenplay deadline. Aside from the last-minute fuck-up ground control has done a first-rate job, so I’m on top of the world and on top of my game, plus I have a great feeling about tonight: our plan kicks ass, and I can already hear my dope glitter mini dress chafing at the bit and begging to be let out of the closet.


Cut to later, night, as my bitchin' glitter mini and I cut a swathe through the big, crowded, just-barely-vip section and roll into the tiny, really-really-vip section, where ground control boomerangs unexpectedly out of a dark corner. I watch him panic as he gauges whether saying hello to me in public might actually prove he’s been, god forbid, pussy-whipped or something, then I swiftly drop-kick him off my radar: my entourage is here, we love dancing and we look divine/we love bands when they’re playing hard/we want more and we want it fast etcetera.


I wasn’t wrong about tonight. Thousands of hours and twists and turns and adventures later we’re on fire in the middle of the dance floor when a stunning piece of something 4 porno materializes out of the welter of being and nothingness. And this is where I pray if I ever get ahlzeimer's please god let me keep this one perfect kiss, exchanged before we even said hello. His tongue tastes like cherry, his dusky curls are to die for, he’s playful and fierce and pretty soon it becomes mutually clear that no one else will do. Like europa with her bull I latch on to his sturdy exciting body and allow him to carry me off god knows where and I don't give a damn, so long as it involves privacy and a bed.


Cut to an intercoital pause hours later, in which finding sleep elusive we…talk. This is where my bull-headed god of the candy-flavored tongue feels the urge, nay, the duty to overwhelm me with astonishing verbal proofs of his manhood, all of which concern matters of vital importance in his badass hood, which he rules because being the baddest of them all he is capable of instilling fear in xyz enemies plus all their brothers uncles cousins sons


and I zone out as the recurrent thought floats horizontally across my mind in neon ticker tape: who the fuck authorized you to take that luscious mouth for a walk without proper supervision, soldier? So the needle skips and we’re back on the track I like, the one that goes you’re so fucking hot girl, you’re my dream come true etcetera. Lust having its reasons of which my reason knows nothing, keep going champ I sigh, knowing at last without having to think about it that unquestionably this is a man, this is a kiss, this is sex. My blank, curious gap is history and I’m a woman again, fully locked and loaded. Praise the lord and pass the ammunition I think, realizing that my long, arduous mission is finally over and putting my intergalactic space travel instruction manual back up on a high shelf. back