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It's the single most intimate thing you've ever done and you've done it with Fabio, maybe the last person in the world you had a complicit relationship with.
Or maybe you did, in a way. Because of all the staring and the silence and the excuses you made up to move in closer. It doesn't even matter anymore and yet you keep thinking about it, like it's that big of a deal. What are we gonna do now? You and Fabio never had a conversation. Not a real one, anyway. You've made fun of him and you've pushed him to the wall, but you never found the time to say hello — to ask him how things are going, even.
It makes you feel sick because this is what you are, now, right? You're not surprised anymore. Though you can't get rid of this feeling like you already know each other, sort of; like the gap between you two was just some kind of secret language, your own personal way to talk in code.
How are you? you could ask him. It's a formal and polite question. It's what you should've asked all that time ago.
But maybe now it's too late.
A simple hey should be enough, you guess. Something along the lines of "I'm staying in touch, y'know. Isn't it your turn, now?" And if you were a little more honest with yourself, it'd also say: "especially cause I've been stalking you on Instagram for the past half an hour and I think the last time I had a boner like this I was watching my first porn".
Though you don't write that.
You'd like him to text you first and allow you to save face, of course, but the moron's not even online and patience was never one of your virtues. You think waiting for someone to text you it's a pain in the ass cause it turns you into a sissy — so you're gonna text him, you tell yourself.
You're gonna text him.
Even though, on paper, you shouldn't give a shit. Even though you denied the whole thing 'til the very end, and the simple idea of letting him see you again makes you panic. What kind of fucking trouble did you get yourself into?
Except if you look at the picture you just found on Instagram you think the hot kind of trouble, and maybe it's not so bad anymore.
You're gonna text him, you repeat. You open the chat and and the last text is yours, from when you tried to play it cool even though your mind was already made up. Same Brando as ever, huh? Nothing to be done about it. Sometimes it makes you wonder how the fuck people manage to put up with you, really.
You home?
Yeah, scratch that. Too much stalker-y or even worse,"gonna show up at your place and jump all over your bones again".
U got good stuff
Right, 'cause that's not an excuse at all.
Idiot.
I don't know
You stare at the screen like it could magically give you a tip. It's child's play for you, usually, saying the first thing that comes to mind and simply get the rest of the conversation flow. Guess the problem is you're talking to Fabio, here, not just some random guy: trying to do the same would probably mean cursing about the million fucking ways his mouth keeps turning you on.
Ur something indecent
You write and remember his face before throwing himself at you, the slight blush of his cheeks at the thought of getting his hands down your pants.
Didn't think u had that in you ;)
He's caught you off guard something like a hundred times, but this is the best one. The fact that the door was still open while he was touching you, while he was shoving his tongue down your throat... You're almost ashamed of how much you liked the idea of getting caught. Or, even better, the idea of Fabio taking that risk — and just to find out if he's getting you hard.
Get a load of the principal's son..
You wonder if he knows what went through you mind while you were staring at him, when he was getting closer. Or maybe you should say he was staring at you, judging by the look on his face...
The simple memory puts a smirk on your face, that kind of adrenaline rush you got zero control over. His mouth was open to take a breath and his head was held up, his eyes half-closed. You guess he knew what you were thinking since he was trying to push you with his hand, to stop you from kissing him, and you realize just now he was probably enjoying it, that little game of watching as you couldn't resist him, the way you kept pushing back.
Son of a bitch
You'd like to pin him to the wall way harder than you did today. Rub yourself against his uniform, feel it getting up when you suck on his neck and enjoy once more his every little hitching breath. He likes your hair, you think, by the way he was pulling it and grabbing it for balance. Good thing you didn't cut it this summer, or it'd been too short and you'd have missed violent Fabio, taking you by the curls and pushing you on the other side of the bathroom, biting the skin under your ear. You simply can't sit on your hands with all the blood rushing to your dick and if you don't stop thinking about it there's a good chance you'll feel it explode, but you know something's got to be written and feeling horny might actually have his upside – getting inspired more easily.
If you don't show up tomorrow I swear I'm gonna rape you on sight
It's hard not to imagine Fabio panting and moaning under your body, opening his legs and letting you take his clothes off, head pulled back, and those eyes, and his eyelids twitching. It drives you so crazy, from the shape of his neck to his jaw, to his Adam's apple.
Truth is you'd fill his body with hickeys just to feel it shiver and laugh from the tickling, to get him ask you to stop, beg you – God, how you'd make him scream if you could – to chuckle in some aloof way that secretly means I like doing this with you, idiot. If you stop now I'll never forgive you.
You'd tease him in every possible way. With your tongue and your fingers and your dick to let him know you wanna fuck him, brushing the tip up against his ass and his hole without ever getting in because why not, because you need him to go crazy with desire, to start whining, like, in Swedish before getting pounded – he's gotta feel it pulsate with fucking pain.
Jesus Christ, I want you, you write in one go, just to delete it right after cause you can't even stand the shape of the letters.
I wanna fuck you till you can't come anymore, you fix it. So it's less sappy, at least, and things are easier for you when they're not sappy.
I'm gonna ruin you, you add. Or: I'm gonna break your ass. Or even: dad's office next time? What do u think?
You let your mind drift back to the sensations.
To Fabio touching your crotch with one hand and groping it gently – or better, to Fabio letting you suck his lip like it's your property, breathing loud while you touch him and pressing against your body to find more friction. Fabio looking at you questioningly outside his house, getting closer on his own when you grab him by the shoulder, kissing you like in a dream. Strict Fabio, smart Fabio, luring you in and attracting you and staring at your lips and seducing you just to leave you hanging on the fire stairs like an idiot, walking away without a hurry even though he knows how jealous you got, how much you want him and how much you're hoping he'll just turn around and grab your neck when you kiss him, saying I was joking, dumbass. I'm all yours.
Fabio yours. Yours to look at, naked, as he comes. To mark and scratch, to wear out from the heat. Yours to drag on the bed and tease for ages and ages before you finally make love to him.
Sex. What you meant is having sex.
Fuck...
You take the phone left under the pillow and search for some tissues to clean yourself up.
You're definitely gonna text him, now.
You just can't help it.