Melinda calls up the love of her life. He loves her too
loves, loves, loves, damnit!
so that’s not entirely a clumsy
drunken thing to do. But Melinda makes it special, the way she makes
every single bat of an eye a drug-liberal little miracle. She’s drunk
but in a way she’s beautiful, even in the midst of making a spectacle of
herself. When the last digit has been slowly and gently fingerfucked,
like all the precious previous, she puts her feet up and leans
leans with her entire being, not just knees and boobs
into
the conversation. His voice is a cliché riddled clusterfuck of glowing
hazel eyes, a dominant forehead and sweet sugary lips that’s only
slightly chapped and even though she hates unconditioned lips she can’t
prevent her mind from swooning and puckering up for that celestial,
sligthly greywhite, wisp of his kiss.
He kisses her gently, cupping her chin and gently steadying her head and
she would do nothing but relish it and maybe even melt a little if she
could just
for one cocksucking minute
disregard the fact that this is
not how it’s supposed to be. There’s no such thing as being of the
‘wrong sex’ so why is she so persistent? Yes, he lives far away and the
path that leads to him is littered with physical obstacles; seas,
oceans, tears, ex-girlfriends, toilet seats left up for the last
unforgiven time, but what do those things matter when he’s the third
meeeh, maybe fourth
best thing that has ever happened to her? Then there are mental obstacles… Oh ho, the mental obstacles…
This is a request.
She wishes to learn to relax. To chill
and play it unsafe and let herself be swept away on this wave of
undying, unconditional, unreal love that relentlessly carries her into
his embrace. And she wishes that for one damn second of her life she
wasn’t so fucking uncool.
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