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diary entry: june 17, 2017 It’s midnight in Philadelphia an..
🕑 Added 2023-03-05 20:03:07 +0000 UTC diary entry: june 17, 2017 It’s midnight in Philadelphia and you don’t want to go home. It’s midnight in Philadelphia and it’s a bottleneck episode, Ella catches a train to spend the weekend with a fan favorite. Remember him from college? The woke finance guy with a heart of gold who always danced like no one was watching. He still looks amazing in a suit and tie. He putters around his apartment in black boxer briefs and he’s yours for the weekend, isn’t that a delicious throwback, isn’t that a fun surprise. Ella goes to Philly and gets something nice for herself. He kisses a line from your inner thighs to your ass to your spine to your shoulder. He wants you on top. The sad fact of being a single woman in New York City for too long is that you forget what it’s like when a man tries. You forget what it’s like to wander through a dog park on a Sunday afternoon and be asked if you want an ice cream while sweat slides down your ribs. You forget what it’s like to sit in a community garden with a cup of chocolate malt chip and tell someone in between spoonfuls about the novel you desperately want to write. You forget. You fortify yourself with details of care: his earnest compliments, how he apologizes when he touches your elbow with his by accident, how he asks you if you want a glass of water, a fresh towel, any ice in your Diet Coke. Later he asks if you’d be interested in another round, his hands gentle at your hips, like he’s talking about a refill and not fucking you out of his borrowed button-down shirt. He is a miracle of kindness and you want nothing to do with the rest of the world, no text messages, no President Donald Trump, no new strategy pivot to video. None of it matters while you’re playing house in this high-ceilinged 1800s apartment that looks like something out of the tumblr architecture tag. He has none of the cynicism of New York City around his eyes and you envy that. You have always envied the openness and optimism with which he experiences the world. He’s worried about his neighbors seeing him through the wide front windows. Unfortunate, because you’d love to fuck him slow and teasing on the sofa, brace your weight against the wall, a slick palm on dry plaster. He points out all the studs from decorations mounted by the previous roommate, a graveyard of someone else’s decorative taste. You can picture your finger smudges, new scrapes in the hardwood floor from sofa legs. His tongue circles your nipple and you grab his hair, really twine your fingers into it until it must hurt. It all comes down to the same thing at the end of the day: you are in control and you will decide what he gets and when he gets it. At twenty years old you considered yourself so lucky to have this man’s attention for an evening, not insecure but naïve in that pre-broken way girls are before some asshole turns her into a woman. Now you are a quarter of a century jaded and gorgeous, entitled, bitter, your recklessness coiled carefully around your knuckles when you break it out from the vault. You love the way he says please, says it over and over and over again until you wonder if you’ll ever say that word yourself without feeling wet and guilty. He fucks you, kisses you, gasps at all of the tight red lace. He is worth the Victoria’s Secret investment because he worships you. He begs for permission and won’t shut up even when you tell him to shut the fuck up. You take his wrists and push them back into the pillow. When you let him loose to push your hair out of your face, he moves his left hand to your hip and you take it again, force it back down into place. That’s what he wants. That’s what he wants, which is what you want, and he demands that you use him for exactly what you want, which is what he wants, which is what you want. Two people pleasers getting off on the cycle of reciprocity. He’s the first man you’ve fucked in years who grins during sex.
