Muscles Better and Nerves More
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I think, No wonder you didn’t, couldn’t love me.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I think, Look who I have become.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I take off all of my clothes and I turn around and I slide my arms up the wall and stick my ass out just so, just enough, just the way you taught me. I’m already wet by the time I look over my shoulder and into the mirror and crane my neck to see what you see.
What you would see.
I’m sure I don’t always look like this, perfect like this, done up like this; I’m sure my cheeks are redder, my hair tangled, my eyes more desperate and unthinking, my thighs— oh my thighs, and the way I try to cover them when you’re watching, that moment when we’re entangled that I dismiss but is always there. I wash it away here. I brush it off now, in the quiet of my room, with the lights on and the blinds open; my eyes open and my legs open and it’s dark out and you are every man that walks by.
I hold them up and push them together and let them go, again and again and the only conclusion I can come to is that I’m not sure my breasts were my breasts before you looked at them. Before you put an errant hand down the side of my v-neck and held them, one after another, without looking. Before you looked. Before you lifted me up closer to you and I unhooked my bra before you could and, “Aw, that’s the best part,”you said and I laughed and let you take it off and then let you remember, let you be reminded, that the unhooking, well, that was never really the important part. Other men, too, my love, other men before you and my own two hands, but my breasts were not breasts before you took each one into your mouth and made me wonder, still sucking, wetly now, deliberately now, how long this could go on. How long before you touch me, before I come undone beneath the lack of you? And on it went with your face buried in my chest there and my eyes and my fists and my toes all waiting, all wanting, and you, nearly forgetting yourself, but merciful at last, your hand up my skirt now, and around my panty hose, and into my pussy now. And then you kissed me more and I wondered how you knew exactly what I wanted when I wanted it and then you gave it to me and wet, wet, wet, I no longer wondered anything at all.
And what I’m trying to tell you is, that sometimes, now, alone in my room late at night with my lights on, I stand at the mirror and I pull off my shirt I stare at my tits and I pretend I am you, looking, maybe, for the first time.
