The Wild Girls

They come down from the roof at night, the Wild Girls, chasing each other through the open doorway of my building, down the stairs, and out onto the street for their brief visit to the ground.

I hear them most often in the early morning, waking from a dream to the sounds of laughter, and I open my eyes wide as I jump to the window hoping to get a glimpse of one. Their feet make almost no sound, their bodies used to the wide open spaces above. In the late hours it can look like they’re flying, leaping from building to building, the water towers and hidden gardens more their homes than any place else. Even as they pass by my door, their colored skirts trailing behind them as the glide through the inside, I can only guess at their nature. I can only guess at where they come from and why my building is the one they use to reach the ground.

Just before sunrise one morning, I awoke to the sound of nothing. I rubbed my eyes, listening to the noises in the night, before I saw a glimmer of color in the window. Without turning I trained my eyes towards the fire escape, and for just a moment I saw her face. Young and old at the same time, her eyes glowed with a brightness I had never seen. Her hair was silver and blue, trailing down her back around her crimson rags. With a smile she pressed her small hand against the window before leaping up into the darkness.

It was just a dream, I told myself. This Wild Girl, pausing for just a moment to see how we live. To see who we are with as much curiosity as we hold for them. And maybe it’s for the best. Maybe some mysteries are better left unseen and better let unknown. There are reasons some people choose not live on the ground.

But in the morning, coffee bringing back the memory in a flash, I looked closely at the glass, only to see fingerprints pressed into the pane. I smiled, wondering what truth it held. It would be a month before their return, but there’s no harm in trying.

Weeks later, I tied the small bag to the rusted iron outside of the fire escape. It was a weak offering, gathered from guessing more than any real understanding, but I closed the shade before I slept, knowing I had already seen enough.

In the morning when I opened the blinds to the bright sun, there was nothing left at all.


There Were Times

There were times when I thought she was too kind.

Kneeling on the floor in front of me, her cheek red from a slap and her eyes glazed over, I had to pause and make sure we were in the same room. She offered everything, her willingness something I didn’t deserve.

She thanked me each time we fucked, and I left each morning wondering if that’s what it felt like to be loved.



Moot Chuck

Chuck’s mother sent him to college with two rubber stamps. One read “obtuse” and the other read “moot.”

He carried them with him throughout his freshman year, sneaking by professor’s desks and stamping papers or tests without anyone looking. He laughed about it later, saying it was probably true anyway. Most everything we did as college kids was one or the other. And how strange to not have an argument about it. It’s not wrong. It’s not missing the point. Your entire exam was simply moot.

His nose was as sharp as his stamping hand, and his brown hair was a mess as only white boys in a liberal arts college can get away with. It curled around his ears, stuck out in a million different directions, and it’s possible there were birds. His worn leather jacked added a hint of mystery to his otherwise nervous persona, and he smoked rolled cigarettes one after the other until his fingers stained yellow.

One morning in the dining hall we couldn’t help stare at him, the black mark on his forehead as crisp and clear as if he was a blank sheet of paper. The word “moot” sat on his skin, his hair somehow managing to highlight it rather than hide it. Seemingly unaware, he smiled as he sat down, and opened his mouth for a swallow of black coffee.

“Did you have a date last night?” I asked him.

“Uh-huh,” he said, with a grin. “She left sometime in the night, but it doesn’t matter. She was everywhere all at once, and I couldn’t understand her at all. Philosophy majors are so damn obtuse.”

“Did you tell her that?” I asked, following up gently.

“Of course I did. I told her I wanted to stamp it on her forehead as a constant reminder to talk like a normal person. None of this transcendental meaning of life bullshit.”

“I’m sure she appreciated it,” I said. “In fact, I think it really left an impression on her.”

“I sure hope so,” he said, leaning back and smiling once more. “I sure hope so.”


Wanting What He Wants

“He wants to fuck me up the ass,” she said, lying in my bed. We had fucked for a half hour and were staring out at the city with smiles on our faces.

“Don’t tell me that,” I moaned, my hand sliding down her back. “Are you going to let him?”

“Why shouldn’t I tell you that? What do you care what my husband wants?” 

Her ass was smooth and hard at the same time, and I pressed my fingers into her skin. Her hair lay down her back, splayed out like an autumn afternoon, decorating her in red. God, please let her say she’s going to do it. Please let her tell me she’s going to let him.

“Are you going to?” I finally asked, choking on the words as they slipped out, trying to give nothing away.

“Probably not. It just doesn’t feel like our thing,” she said.

“Oh fuck,” I said, rolling onto my back and looking up at the ceiling.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, poking me in the chest with a long finger.

“This,” I said, turning back and grabbing her left ass cheek in one hand. “This perfect little tush is what’s wrong with me.”

“Fuck, does that mean…” She said, recognition splashed across her face. She nestled her head down into the pillow, her mouth covered as she wiggled on the bed.

“Yes,” I said, rolling on top of her, my cock hard once more and pressed between the cheeks of her ass. I pushed harder against her as I pulled her hair and kissed her neck.

“What do you want? What does it mean?” she moaned, arching her back up to me.

“You know what I want. You knew it before you said a word. And you knew that you wouldn’t say no to me, didn’t you? Maybe him, but never me.”

“Yes,” she moaned again. “Just say it. Please say it.”

“I’m going to fuck you,” I growled, pushing harder against her. “I’m going to fuck your ass so goddamned hard you won’t be able to think. I’m going to make you beg for it, and cry for it until you can’t stand it any longer, and then I’m going to fuck you again. You’re going to come so hard with my cock inside you, with my cock buried in your tight little ass, and when we’re done you’ll make me promise to do it again.”

“Oh fuck,” she screamed, opening her legs wider with each moan. “I hate you.”

"Do you want me to stop?" I whispered, my lips just brushing her ear.

"No," she moaned, lifting her hips off the bed. "Please God, no."


Thoughts About Men

I’ve always been drawn to old man bars with dark wood, black beer, and ideally a fireplace.


On occasion, I wonder what it is that draws me in, and I’ve often assumed that I simply feel like an old man much of the time. Even as a teenager. But the truth is more likely that I know I’m missing something, and a part of me believes the old men have it. Maybe it’s wisdom or insight, but I suspect it’s both simpler and more complicated than that.


I’ve had a number of men in my life who have taught me things, but most of my education was done by women: emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually. I’ve learned kindness, compassion, and empathy, along with enough gratitude to prime a horse. I learned to read and write, and the most nuanced and interesting cultural critiques I know have always come from brilliant women. From my mother, to my high school teachers, to Naomi Klein, much of what I know I learned from women.


The men in my life have been more complicated. From a stern yet loving grandfather, to a wild minister and oft traveling father, I’ve had men about too. But along with the kind ones came the men who shook my hand so hard my knuckles nearly burst. I’ve had the boys who threw things and shouted insults as I passed by, and the old men who leered at me, seeing a sweetness that was obviously exploitable. I’ve had the boys who fell in love with me only to follow too closely and not listen to no, right alongside the boys who’ve threatened and harassed me for their own reasons.


For most of my life, men have been scary, unstable, absent, and maybe, on a good day, simply confusing. So, when I’ve had the choice, I’ve chosen the company of women. From college friends to church and work, I’ve preferred the safety and intellect of women, who at least I felt like I could understand. Even working with teenagers for years, it was always easier to sit with the girls and talk than it was to handle the ceaseless energy of the boys who needed me more than I knew.


But being comfortable in my feminine side doesn’t let me off the hook for the rest of it. The parts I’ve avoided–and often shoved away into a dark corner out of fear or concern–haven’t left me. Sometimes it was outright rejection, and sometimes it was pure ego, but those efforts were never going to work. I am not like those men, I proclaim. I would never do that or even think it. I understand, I care, and I can listen.


So then I find myself wondering if old men might be less frightening than the young ones, or even the ones now my age, who seem just as lost as anyone. The bars offer a social setting where part of me hopes I might learn something. I might learn not to turn away, and I might learn to let go of the stories I’ve told myself about men.


But if it’s not wisdom, then what is it? If it’s not insight, then what can I gain? And if it’s not simply knowledge, then what’s the point? But I drink with them and listen to them laugh, and I see something out of the corner of my eye. I stop trying to process everything, and for moments it’s there all on its own. They are not teachers I’ve ever had before. They are not even trying to educate me, in fact, they’d be perfectly content if I wasn’t there at all.


It occurs to me, when I stay long enough, that these men are exactly what they are. They are angry or sad. They are drunk or abstaining, and they are not hiding. In fact, the bar might be the only place they don’t hide, but for a moment they are simply themselves, and I see men. I see broken and reborn men. I see strong men who are afraid, and I see men who have stopped trying at all.


Maybe I long to be them, and maybe I hope to avoid the same fate, but I’m drawn in all the same, wondering how to embrace something I don’t understand. Hoping to see a glimmer of something that makes me also feel like a man. Hoping that between the dark beers and the lined faces, I’ll find my own strength.



Orange and Blue

Last night I dreamed of you again.


You were wearing old jeans, and your head was shaved once more. Your tank top hung loosely off your shoulders, leaving your breasts completely unconcerned with their exposure. I could smell your father’s cologne as I kissed your neck and ran my fingers over your prickly scalp.


You walked me through a park, the sky orange and blue above us, without letting go of my hand. I struggled to follow, my feet unsure of how to move or walk as we glided through the trees and flowers to a pond in the exact center. You turned and kissed me at its edge, pulling your shirt and jeans off in slow motion as I floated inches off the ground.


Naked you walked backwards, the water covering your feet and turning your skin gold. Your calves and knees followed, and I fell forward watching the waver cover your cunt and stomach, my hand reaching out for you. When the water was up to your neck you began to cry, and I leaned further out over the edge, terrified of what might happen if I touched the surface.


You reached out one hand, and where we touched my fingers turned instantly, the gold shooting up into my hand until I coulnd’t look away. I held it to my face, the longing in my body flowing up through my lungs, into my mouth, and into the world in a cloud of bright smoke. I closed my eyes for just a moment, and when I opened them once more the pool was empty, and you were no longer there.


I lay back, staring up at the sky, as the world shifted once more to somewhere more and less familiar. I felt myself let go, and I felt the each open beneath me, pulling me down into its warm embrace.


I dreamed of you last night. And in the morning you were still there.

The Lucky One

The three of us lay in bed afterwards, our hands intertwined and the sweat drying on our skin.

I occasionally looked back and forth between them: eyes, breasts, hips, and all the rest. I took them in with a sigh, wondering who was the lucky one? Was it me, with two beautiful women so close to me? Was it her, finally getting the chance to watch and let go? Getting the chance to taste pussy on my cock, and reveling in the power she felt as she pushed our friend to the bed and closed her thighs around her?

Or was it the third? Her body sore and exhausted from too much attention. Her lips bruised, her ass red, and her cunt still throbbing?

But of course, she has to work at seven am, and won’t be home until she’s finished an exhausting day with a boss who takes her for granted. The other needs to go home in the morning to a husband who may or may not be excited that she fucked me while getting her face slapped by a pretty red head with a filthy mouth. And I have to pretend I can sleep, pretend I don’t feel guilt or even worry. I have to spend the night trying not to think of someone who isn’t there.

Too many thoughts swirled in my head as I stared up at the white ceiling, wishing I had the energy to paint it red. Wishing I had the nerve to cover it in color.

I could hear them breathing, and when I moved my hands there was soft skin along with parting thighs and someone’s fingers. The fan in the window did little to cool us off, and the room smelled like the ocean in summer.

I leaned this way and that, kissing one’s cheek and the other’s lips as I nestled down between them, my thoughts mostly forgotten. A thigh slid between my own, and the blood flowed instantly, followed by a gentle hand. Someone moaned, and someone bit my collar bone. I closed my eyes, my hands and arms pulling closer. Pulling harder in the warm dark, until my mouth was full of hair while warm, soft, willing lips, kissed down my chest to my stomach showing no signs of stopping.



Autumn Isn’t Coming

I sat down next to Rhyming Jenny. Drunk. Tired. Cold.


“Autumn isn’t coming this year,” I told her over my glass. I had been drinking Manhattans with a splash of something smoky. They were good and they warmed me up, but I had lost count a couple drinks ago.


“Of course she is. She always comes for at least a night or two. That girl would climb a goddamn mountain to fuck you, even if she does leave the next morning to climb another one to fuck some other drunk writer.”


“Have you ever tried lying?” I asked her. She was deathly honest, and there was no way around it. She says she was cursed when she was young. I think it’s just a survival mechanism, but I don’t say that out loud.


“How do you know I’m not?” she snorted, shaking her head at me. I was used to that head shake, and even on a bad (drunk, tired, cold) day it was reassuring. It meant everything would be fucking fine. It meant I worry too much. It meant everyone else knows me better than I do, so I should just shut the fuck up about it.


“She’s probably going to stay somewhere warm and never come to New York again,” I moaned, unsure of what I believed. “The weather is screwing with her habits.”


A second later my phone went off. I jumped too quickly to check it, and Jenny didn’t even bother to look. She just started laughing before stealing the last of my drink. I tried to smile almost as hard as I tried to stand up, and I was mildly successful at them both. When I was finally stable she kissed my cheek and slapped my ass.


“Go. You need it this time, but so does she. And don’t let her forget it. You’re a good one.”


I wobbled as I felt my heartbeat quicken.


“I’ll do my best,” I said, stumbling towards the door and the cool crisp air blowing in from the street.

No matter what else happened, and no matter how long she stayed, Autumn had come.


Worship, Pussy, and Memory

I wanted to worship her.


And maybe I did. In fact, maybe I only worshiped her, and at the end of the day we all need something more down to earth. We need to know that our snot and our tears are as acceptable as our pounding thighs and pulsing blood. Possibly she needed to know that her impossible eyes held as much pain as they did glory.


The minutes and years I spent between her legs – kissing her lips, savoring her cunt, and reveling in her release – were often followed by tears, but was that enough? Was my patience and my hope enough to remind her that being human is a glorious accomplishment in its own right? Or was my wonder simply a distraction that led us to sleep on opposite sides of the bed?


And how funny, that now, years later, I remember her aches as much as her sighs. Only now I remember her worry even as we clawed at skin and tore at clothes. Her clenched fist, tight in the sheets, when I first slid inside her, sits perfectly at ease next to her anguish and grief when she said goodbye to a home she needed to leave. Her pleas for more hang in the air next to her tomorrows.


But for me I needed to lose myself in the prayer. I needed to hope that perfection might be found in her kiss and enduring love might be caught in a slippery embrace. When our bodies were slick with sweat, and her skin sticky with come, the world was a place of beautiful relief. We meditated with cocks and cunts, and our breath was insignificant.


But maybe, in the end, neither of us was worthy of idolatry. Or maybe we simply needed more. Something whole. Something messier and something more intricate that simple beauty.


And yet, even now, when I think of her skin and her taste, all I know is that she was perfect in every way.



We Were Kids

“We were kids,” I told her over coffee. “We didn’t know what we were doing.”


“Don’t try to brush it aside just because we were young. And besides we didn’t do it terribly. Considering the chemicals rushing through our bodies and the thoughts rushing through our heads, we weren’t bad at all. I bet you’d give anything for a kiss like that again.”


We hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years, but somehow we came back to each other instantly. The touch of her hand, the smell of her perfume—still Chanel—and the rise of her lip when she poked fun at me were as familiar as the taste of the coffee.


“I’m just saying, we where what? Fifteen? We fumbled through everything, and I’m sure I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing, other than being desperate for your skin. Hell, desperate for your attention. Desperate for anything at all.”


She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment, the look on her face so clear and easy that I almost loughed.


“You were sixteen. I was fifteen,” she reminded me. “And someone being desperate for my skin the way you were, would be… I don’t know what it would be. All I know is that I miss that longing, that worry, and that sense of wonder when everything was new. Christ, you must have spent an hour between my legs the first time, listening to me moan and as you tried everything you could think of to do with your tongue. There’s a lot to be said for enthusiasm. When was the last time you went down on a girl like she was magic?”


It was my turn to close my eyes and try to remember her taste. Try to remember the unbearable anticipation the first time I slid her panties off her hips, saw her brown curls and soft lips. Try to remember my heart beating like is hasn’t in years at the simple possibility of kissing a thigh and hearing a moan.


“We never even fucked,” I finally said, wondering as the words left my mouth if they meant anything at all.


“We didn’t think we were fucking, but we were so wrong. Your tongue, my hands, you knee between my legs, hell, it was all fucking. Your kiss was fucking. Your fingers in my hair were fucking. I don’t think we did anything else, even when we simply held hands beneath the table at dinner.”


“We were young,” I mumbled again, trying to remember the present. There was no point in nostalgia. No point in trying to get something back that we lost years ago. There was no point.


“Close your eyes,” she whispered, leaning in closely. I put my mug down and my whole body tensed as I sat upright. I had no idea what she was going to do, but my heart wouldn’t stop, and my head was spinning.


Without a word her mouth touched mine, her tongue pushing between my lips in a kiss that was tender, strong, and without any skill at all.


“What was that?” I asked, when she finally pulled away.


“That was me fucking you,” she said with a smile.



Summer and Fall

She climbed onto my lap as he watched us, a smile on his face that I had seen a million times before.


“I can’t believe I’ve never kissed you,” she whispered, her lips just brushing my own.


“Is that what you want?” I asked. “Just a kiss?”


“I want more than a kiss,” she said letting me taste her breath as I dug my fingers into the small of her back and pulled her closer. Her lips were full and soft, and I could feel years of anticipation pressing against the back of my throat. Our kiss was tender and strong. It was summer and fall.


“You two are beautiful,” he said leaning closer to us, even as I slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders. Her neck was impossibly soft and her collarbone left a pool of shadow in which I buried my mouth. When her hips moved I was hard in an instant, and she whimpered into my ear as she pushed against me.


She was the one who motioned for him to lose his shirt as I kissed the space between her breasts, and out of the corner of my eye I watched him kneel beside us, his hand on his belt and his bare chest strong and slick. Without thinking I ran one hand up his body from his stomach to his parted lips, where he took them instantly.


“Let’s suck his cock,” she whispered into my ear, her hand pulling at his buckle. “While we fuck,” she added as an after thought. I wiggled beneath her, my mind growing dizzy in an instant as she helped me pull my cock from my jeans and roll a condom over it as he watched. Her dress was around her waist, his hand inside his pants, and in a moment everything was clear once more.


She guided me inside her, slowly opening around me as I held her hips and ass; he lifted her dress, watching us join for the first time. He licked his lips as he watched, and then suddenly she was on me, my cock buried inside her completely, and my mouth back on hers with a hunger that bordered on ravenous.


And before I could get used to anything, he was standing next to us, his hard cock in his fist as she leaned in and took him into her mouth. My hand replaced his in a second as I tried to focus on everything at once, and he was impossibly hard. She pulled him closer, leaning back just enough to watch my lips open as well, taking him into my mouth as I pulled her onto me with a hand on the small of her back.


I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but it might have been years; taking turns sucking his cock and fucking for the first time after waiting almost too long. I don’t know how I managed to focus at all, and I don’t know how she slipped a hand between our bodies to rub her clit exactly the right way. I do know that he screamed out both our names as he grew closer, and I do know that we laughed and grinned as we jerked him off into our waiting mouths. And I know that her sticky kiss, salty and sweet, was full of tenderness and come all at the same time.


He lay back and watched, his body still shaking as she clenched around me, her dress now lost to a dark corner of the floor. I kissed her neck and pulled a nipple between my teeth until she screamed. But it wasn’t until I threw her to her back, opened her thighs, and stared at her open cunt that I was fully present. I fucked her once more, her head nearly in his lap, and she closed her eyes and arched her hips to meet me as she slapped her cunt with an open hand. Over and over again she beat her tender skin as I slammed into her, her moans growing darker and deeper with each second.


When she came it was with a growl and with tears. Her face closed in pain and pleasure, her thighs closed around me, and her hands turned to fists in an instant. She screamed and screamed, even as I continued fucking her, and it went on for an endless moment. I kissed her mouth as he cradled her head, and when I finally held her she started to laugh.


I pulled out and lay next to next body, still in the spasms of release, and he sighed as he touched my face.


“So beautiful,” he said again, his voice echoing in the dark room like a light in the sky.


Lions and Gazelles

As the frat boys roll into the Lower East Side, their collars popped and their Docksiders worn with salt water from the deck of Daddy’s boat, I stay close to the walls hoping to go unseen. Their girlfriends are impossibly tall, their legs going all the way up with boots that cover their knees, and skirts that go nowhere. They look foreign to me as if sometime a few thousand years ago we split off in separate directions down the evolutionary road. They are gazelles and lions while I’m fisher cat slinking through the shadows.


But back at my apartment, with the music switching been Lana Del Rey and Richard Thompson, there are limbs and whisky that have come from a million different directions. We’ve come from old families and broken ones. We’ve come from black sands and swamps, and we’ve come from towering buildings with doormen who raised us as much as anyone else. We’ve come from trailers and mansions, our bodies and minds as varied as the changing streets that crawl off into the hidden places we don’t yet know.


Sometimes I wonder if our kissing and undressing is simply another way to cope with the swirling mess outside our windows. If our naked bodies, slick with sweat and beautifully bruised, let us melt into the night as much as the heels and backwards hats do. We laugh loudly and often, even as thighs part and lips becomes wet with anticipation. We move between staring in awe and drifting off behind closed eyes while the world holds us without thought.

The elegant animals on the streets howl into the evening as we pull sounds from our own lips, drowning out the noise from below.



“We used to go down on each other, pretending you had just come in us.”


I nearly spat out my drink as the words left her mouth because that was not at all where I thought the conversation was going. We had been getting caught up in nostalgia, thinking about an old friend, but it had been sweet reminiscing about sunsets and late nights laughing. It was wine in paper cups, college professors, and term papers.


“Can you say that again?” I asked, leaning in closer. Her blush was slight, but obvious, and I wondered if she had meant to say it out loud.


“We’re all allowed fantasies,” she said with a shrug. “It was fun. We both wanted you, so we just took turns, wondering what it would be like if the other stumbled home after a few hours in your bed.”


“Which turned you on more?” I asked, closing my eyes as I pictured them together once more. I had plenty of my own fantasies to choose from, and there had been enough nights years ago when I lay awake wondering if they were sharing a bed. They were the sort of roommates who held hands when they walked to class and wrote letters on vacation. They showered together after runs, and wore the same outfits to parties.


“That’s easy,” she whispered, taking my hand in hers. “It was always me. I always wanted to start it, to tease her, and to make her ask questions until she was so turned on she couldn’t help herself. I’d stumble into the room and tell her it had happened. I used to push her down onto my bed, my hand in her hair as she begged to hear more. By the time I felt her mouth on my thigh she was practically coming, and I was close behind.”


“And she…” I couldn’t get the words out.


“She dove in, eating my pussy like she was crazy. ‘I can taste him’ she’d moan, fucking me with her tongue. ‘I can taste his come inside you.’”


I leaned back and took a drink, wondering if I had been that clueless in school or if I was simply that foolish now.


“I wish you had told me,” I finally said, kissing her fingers. “I mean, I might have been able to help.”


“It was just a fantasy,” she said with another shrug. “Besides, it was the only way I could get her to go down on me. Sometimes you have to be creative.”



Day Dreams

Amy was the first to get rid of her cell phone and nobody saw her for a week. Marcus followed next, and we bumped into them on Avenue A one night on our way back from the bar. They smiled and laughed, and in the middle of our brief chat one of them asked us what day of the week it was. I looked over my shoulder as I staggered off towards bed, and their laughter lit up the night sky.

Peter quit his job the old fashioned way and hitchhiked west with a backpack and his smash faced puppy. He called from a payphone once, claiming that the world was on fire and we should look out the window. It took me days to realize he wasn’t posting on Facebook, and weeks to realize that I was jealous.

By the time I joined in the coup we there was a small colony of free people in pockets spread throughout the city. We drank less and spent more time in parks, always just finding each other by accident. Our schedules quickly became directed by our bodies and our needs, and within months we were sleeping through the afternoon and reading stories to each other at night. We often walked for hours at a time, crossing the island over and over again seeing buildings we had never seen before.

We fell to sleep content and with smiles on our faces.


It’s Okay

“It’s okay if you lie about me,” I whispered. “In fact, I like it.”

“You like it?”

I pulled her closer and kissed her hair once more, still marveling at the fact that she was in bed next to me at all. We had moved from exaltation to exhaustion more times than I could count and our bodies were sore and battered. Each time I thought we might slow down or sleep there was a whispered word or the movement of a thigh. Something as simple as a breath would draw us back into each other’s sticky embrace and once again time would forget what it was supposed to do.

“You’re so honest and kind,” I said, pausing to kiss her lips and look into her eyes. “So I like anything at all that makes you go against your values.”

She buried her head in the crook of my neck and shook it back and forth, her hair in my mouth in an instant. I squeezed her hand, wondering if for just a moment I had said the wrong thing. When she finally looked up at me again she was grinning.

“I think this might work out well,” she said before kissing me once more.