The Affair

Mark and I will take tennis lessons from the one and only Novak Djokovic. You see, his uncle knows someone who knows someone who owes him a favor, you know how it goes. At first it will be considered a one-time thing, we'll take him out to lunch and the court; but then he'll see how atrocious our technique is and how charming we are, and he will offer more lessons. He'll quickly become a trusted friend, and Novak will relish the time away from the media. We'll watch movies together, packed tightly onto a sofa, the skin of our legs singing whenever contact is made. We will play fight and wrestle while wearing those cute tennis wristbands. After a morning of perfecting our backhands, we'll retire inside, sweaty. We'll continue our chatting as he showers. Those Serbians are not shy. Then one day he'll get a phone call, get a serious look on his face, and ask us in that sexy accent if we would excuse him for a minute. When he finally comes back inside, his eyes are pink, and he's choking back sobs. Mark and I will hug him and ask what's wrong. As we hold him, he will tell us that his girlfriend broke up with him. He was going to break up with her, but it still hurts. He will say that he's known for a long that time it wasn't going to work out and that he was trying to be who everyone expects him to be. This will of course bring on a fresh round of crying, and we'll do our best to soothe him. Eyes still wet, Novak will put on a brave face and insist that he's fine, that he knew it had to end because he was too different. When I ask how, he will look up at me shyly; and there, wedged with Mark behind him and me in front of him, he will kiss me. Our hands will start roaming, and Mark and I will kiss away his tears. Yada yada , double penetration of a tennis superstar, yada, jizz EVERYWHERE.

It Will Be A June Wedding

Let me tell you about my boyfriend. His name is Mark. Mark R. I first spied him across the waiting room at the train station, and my heart leaped the instant our eyes met. It was love, lust, and devotion at first sight. He was busy with his computer while I pulled out my camera, putting the zoom lens to good use. Who knew that those few snapshots would one day be on the first page of an album labeled “Mark & Dan” with a heart around it? He looks like a cuter, healthier version of someone I once had a crush on. And more Latino. His surname is Latino, and there are hints of it in his features: bushy eyebrows, pouty lips, and always looking like he has on a trace of eyeliner and mascara.

After my impromptu clandestine photo session, he got up to use the rest room. If I were braver, I would have followed him in there. But sadly my bravery is relegated to other areas, so there I sat alone. Upon his return, he made his way to the line that was forming for the train, and it took me a couple minutes to follow. By this time, I was intimately familiar with the back of his head. He’s perhaps 5’11”, with a touch of muscle on him. His chestnut hair doesn’t have any product in it, and it’s apparent he hasn’t had it cut for some time. It has a sexy casualness about it that cannot be contrived. His outfit does rather confuse me: tan suede miniboots, stylish grey jeans, and what looks like a walmart uniform-issued blue sweater. It works on him though. His ass looks great in the pants. I got a peek at his underwear when he briefly sat down in line: the waistband and material indicate either briefs or boxerbriefs. My money is on boxerbriefs.

The doors open, and everyone spilled toward the train, not minding that there was a line in the first place. I made haste, and cut off several people to stay close to him. An extremely large man with nails too long for my taste and dreadlocks stayed between us, but I wouldn’t let him get in my way once on the train. The odds worked to my favor, and there were the perfect number of occupied seats. Mark sat next to a window, and I stopped in the row next to him. I saw a completely vacant row down the train, but I pretended not to notice it. Without even asking, I sat next to him. He immediately closed his eyes and slumped toward the window to sleep. The way his plump lips separated in slumber just a touch makes me burn. His two-day scruff only added to the lovable effect.

I was hoping that he would remain dozing when the man came for our tickets so I would have an excuse to oh so gently jostle his shoulder. Or should I go for the leg? That’s more intimate but more forward. When the agent came for our tickets, I hadn’t signed mine yet, so he handed me a pen. I do so on the iPad on my lap, and it seemed Mark hadn’t signed his ticket either. Instead of handing him the surface to write on, I scoot closer and indicate that he can just write on it while it’s on my leg. I swear I could feel every brief stroke of the pen through the layers of electronics and denim. It burned me, and I am convinced I will forever have his name written into my right thigh. He said “thankyou,” in the kindest voice I have ever heard. No pretense, just golden honey flowing to my ears.

Now he slept , arms crossed on his stomach, head tilted toward me. Thank goodness for that. I want to kiss his eyebrow, his eyelid, his gorgeous cheekbone, that endearing nose. Those eyelashes are two miles long and denser than a paintbrush. I want to run my lips over the stubble on his jaw, memorizing the planes and angles and noting where it gives over to the complete softness below his eye. His sleeves are slightly pushed up, and I take in the moderate amount of hair on his tan arms. His tan is absolutely natural of course; it’s just his complexion. I can tell that if I were able to peek down his shirt, I’d find chest hair. Just what I like.

I’ll leave him be for now. He needs his rest. When we stop in Chicago, we’ll both have time to kill, and find ourselves in a coffee shop. We’ll talk for hours, but it will seem like only a few minutes. His eyes will have a glow to them that I’ve never before encountered. I’ll want to nuzzle in the cleft of his chin. At one point, he’ll softly take my hand for emphasis while telling a story, but he won’t let go. His hand won’t feel sweaty; which is a wonder to me, because my hands always sweat when clasped with another’s. We’ll grudgingly part ways to go about our weekends, and it will hurt. We’ll hug goodbye: things are too innocent right now for a kiss, though we both want it. It will be a lingering hug, very tight at times, with rubbing instead of patting. It will be the kind of hug where our cheeks are pressed against each other, and the scrape of our facial hair is titillating. Eyelashes will brush against eyelashes, making me swoon. Apart for the weekend, I will feel empty the whole time, like I've had a part of my spirit removed. When we’re both back in town, we’ll meet; and this time it will start with a kiss. Then we will plan our future together, smiling and laughing. Because I know this is what will happen, I let him relax in peace on the train ride. We have an entire lifetime to live together after all.