Stories In Scars
Hot, Sweaty, Angry, Crazy, Monsterous ***ing
After another hour or so, we left. Ryan and I headed back to his place.
“I wrote some more stuff when I was home. Wanna hear?” I asked.
“Of course,” he smiled.
I sat down at his piano and started playing and singing.
“I wear my heart on my sleeve,
Cause there’s a knife in my chest,
From a back-back-backstabber with blurred vision.
Hopefully my words can stand their ground,
When wer are against each other in a freestyle contest.”
I continue with the second verse, chorus, and bridge.
“Well, Ryan, what do you think?”
“I love it. Immensely. I wrote some stuff yesterday too.”
Ryan picks up his guitar, and starts singing.
“The two dollar a night motels,
Is where it’s all going on at.
The boyfriends and girlfriends and hookers and hos,
Are waiting for their next paychecks.
Room 319, you know the one,
Arrives the badge officer.
Their clothing is shed and their loving is bred and,
It’s done in eight minutes flat.”
“Wow, Ryan. That’s amazing. So out there, but amazing.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve never been able to be this clean about my writing before. I always feel like I’m being judged, but showing you is, just, I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
Before I knew what happened, his lips were pressing up against mine, pressing me against the piano. After a while, I take control, and move us to the couch. I try to stay in control, on the top, but he wins. Smothering me with kisses, he managed to unbutton my sweater. I rip off his blazer, and shirt. I start trailing kisses down Ryan’s chest, and somehow, my t-shirt ends up hitting the wall across the room. Kisses engulf my chest, as we work on each other’s belts.
“Let’s go to my room,” Ryan breathes.
“No. The floor.” I tell him.
We leave our pants on the sofa, and it’s just us on the rug. He unclasps my bra, takes off my boyshorts, and slips out of his own boxers all at the same time. That boy must have had some practice, I thought to myself.
In the dark, we fucked. No, not fucked. This was more passionate than fucking. You fuck with a stranger. This, this was not fucking. We made love. Honest, hot, sweaty, angry love.
“That. Was. Amazing,” Ryan says.
I smiled, “It was.”
On the floor, we both fell asleep, in each others arms.
“I wrote some more stuff when I was home. Wanna hear?” I asked.
“Of course,” he smiled.
I sat down at his piano and started playing and singing.
“I wear my heart on my sleeve,
Cause there’s a knife in my chest,
From a back-back-backstabber with blurred vision.
Hopefully my words can stand their ground,
When wer are against each other in a freestyle contest.”
I continue with the second verse, chorus, and bridge.
“Well, Ryan, what do you think?”
“I love it. Immensely. I wrote some stuff yesterday too.”
Ryan picks up his guitar, and starts singing.
“The two dollar a night motels,
Is where it’s all going on at.
The boyfriends and girlfriends and hookers and hos,
Are waiting for their next paychecks.
Room 319, you know the one,
Arrives the badge officer.
Their clothing is shed and their loving is bred and,
It’s done in eight minutes flat.”
“Wow, Ryan. That’s amazing. So out there, but amazing.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve never been able to be this clean about my writing before. I always feel like I’m being judged, but showing you is, just, I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
Before I knew what happened, his lips were pressing up against mine, pressing me against the piano. After a while, I take control, and move us to the couch. I try to stay in control, on the top, but he wins. Smothering me with kisses, he managed to unbutton my sweater. I rip off his blazer, and shirt. I start trailing kisses down Ryan’s chest, and somehow, my t-shirt ends up hitting the wall across the room. Kisses engulf my chest, as we work on each other’s belts.
“Let’s go to my room,” Ryan breathes.
“No. The floor.” I tell him.
We leave our pants on the sofa, and it’s just us on the rug. He unclasps my bra, takes off my boyshorts, and slips out of his own boxers all at the same time. That boy must have had some practice, I thought to myself.
In the dark, we fucked. No, not fucked. This was more passionate than fucking. You fuck with a stranger. This, this was not fucking. We made love. Honest, hot, sweaty, angry love.
“That. Was. Amazing,” Ryan says.
I smiled, “It was.”
On the floor, we both fell asleep, in each others arms.