Because he dances around the room like he fucking owns the world, that cigarette hanging from the corner of his lip.
Because he’s not intimidated by me, wondering at him, on the couch.
Because he eases alongside me, looks me up and down.
Because he pulls my shirt out in front like what’s underneath is in his possession.
Because he grabs me by the back of my hair and screams lyrics in my face when my ready mouth opens to his.
Because he lets go when any other man would have kissed me.
And then does the exact same thing again.
It’s the music.
It’s his music.
It’s what allows him to gain control of a situation.
And when it comes to fucking, it’s his language, his glory, his reign.
Garden level apartment downtown. Night. Legs pass by.
I want the lights turned off, the shades drawn.
I don’t want others involved in what is already so close to happening.
But it doesn’t matter what I want. I’m not the one dominating this scene.
At first I think he has a voyeur thing.
But no. He has just lost all recognition of any reality beyond the beat.
The bass pumps beneath my bare feet.
Then, his lifting up my skirt and forcing me to the ground, my backside.
Then, his pushing me down and climbing on top of me, my spine, my shoulders, my head.
Legs wrap easily around him.
Crotchless panties and his fucking gorgeous cock.
Slipping all too fluidly inside of me.
Those goddamn hips of his.
Riding me like a rock hard pulse.
If I didn’t feel the music before, there’s no way I can’t now.
It’s living and moving inside of me.
Pounding out its long shaft-tempo against my cervix.
And I forget about the window, about the lights, about the passing legs.
Merge mind with rhythmic body.
Later, he’s almost passed out, and I think he won’t remember, so I tell him that I love him.
“You love me for my music, baby?”
I smile in the dark, don’t answer.
I love this man for his fucking music.