Page 58 of Poetry On Ice
“You can try again.” When he says it, he squeezes my hand in a way that makes me believe anything’s possible.
Anything’s possible?
Anything’spossible!?
Oh, hell no! What’s going on, and who has taken control of my mind?
Ah, I see.
I get it now.
I’m tripping. I’m high. I’m chilled out and happy. Chatty as fuck. I’m not myself. It’s clear I’m delirious. The sugar has gone to my head. Yeah, that’s what’shappened. I’ve consumed a truckload of chocolate, and my system has been flooded with glucose. It can’t process all of it at once, and thus, I’m experiencing a rush that’s affecting my mood.
It’s fine. It’s all fine. No need to worry. I’ll crash in a minute.
I don’t though. We keep talking for hours. McGuire’s head is close to mine, his chest turned toward me. When we’re not laughing uproariously at nothing, we talk quietly. Words bounce around between us, staying close. Contained. Like there’s a thin, glistening bubble around us that makes us impervious to others. Everything that isn’t him or me recoils off it and ceases to exist.
It isn’t until the light in the Chocolatrie changes, growing dim and shadowy, that it occurs to me what’s happened.
Robbie McGuire isn’t delusional. Or if he is, he’s not the only one.
This is a date.
We are one hundred percent, for sure, unequivocally, on a goddamn date.
I tense bodily from the thought, and he feels it. He must because he lets go of my hand. Before I have time to feel any relief about having my extremities back to myself, he traces the outer seam of my jeans with the backof two of his fingers. A tremor runs through me that makes my legs lame.
He talks quietly, face so close to mine, his nose all but touching my neck. I scan the room to see if anyone’s looking. A reflex so old I don’t even need to think about it. I just do it. We’re safe. The place has emptied and the only other people here work here. They’re in the kitchen or at the front counter, packing up for the day.
“I think I need to go home, Ant,” he whispers. “I need to go now…I’m having a really hard time not touching your dick. It’s really hard not to. Too hard. I don’t know how much longer I can stop myself.”
A now-familiar switch flicks.
It brings with it the usual storm of arousal. A thunderous surge heats my blood and makes it run thick. I look into McGuire’s eyes and see the same thing I feel written all over them.
“Sit on your hands, Babygirl,” the man in control of my voice tells him.
His expression goes lax and he does as I say. Lifting one hip at a time and sliding a hand under each of his cheeks. He sits perfectly still, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and letting go of it slowly as he waits for my next instruction.
“Spread your legs.”
His chest rises and falls sharply, but he does as I say. He opens his legs so his knees are shoulder-width apart, and the leg closest to me is pressed hard against mine. I flick my eyes left and right. There are people nearby but not looking. We’re alone but not alone. It’s madness to be thinking of doing something like this, never mind doing it. Robbie’s right. We should go home.
That’s what I’m thinking.That’swhat’s going through my mind as I watch my hand reach down and cup his dick through his pants. It’s hard against my palm. A thick rod swollen solid and stretched out against his groin. Sinew and muscle strain under a zipper and denim. I run my fingers up his length and then all the way down to his balls. He adjusts his position, face lined in concentration, as he shifts his hips forward to give me more access. I curl my fingers around him and squeeze his cock hard. He presses his lips together and swallows a whimper. I alternate between stroking and squeezing until he moves his hands onto the table, fists are balled, and his legs are visibly shaking.
“Home time,” I say.
23
Ant Decker
It’s almost dark bythe time we get to his house. It’s twilight and pouring down rain. This is Seattle, so of course it’s fucking raining. Sheets of water splatter the windshield and vanish as the wipers do their job at top speed. The glass is clear for a second, two smooth, arched clearings framing a wet, foggy picture of Thickwood Drive before quickly being drenched again. The wipers sing their repetitive song as I wait for McGuire to get out of the car.
He put his hand on the stick as soon as we got in the car when we left the restaurant, forcing me to place my hand over his every time I changed gears. I told him to stop being cute, but he point-blank ignored me.
The car is in neutral now, but for some reason, my hand is still on his.
I’m going to move it any minute now. I will. You’ll see.