You lay awake wondering what the hell is wrong with you--you haven't gotten laid in weeks, that's what's wrong. Teenage muscles and mind all running high on fantasies you never knew you had. None of it makes sense but that's why you dropped out of school in the first place. Teachers in New York were like everyone else in the Big Apple: always frustrated and in a real hurry to get to the next big thing. There was never any time to go over what you didn't get because that meant you were just asking to piss someone off, and that was the last thing you wanted in a city like that. Somehow, though, that's what always wound up happening.
Well, fuck teachers, fuck school and fuck sense. You do what feels good.
He'd feel good. That, at least, makes sense.
You've heard of things like animal magnetism but you don't know what words like that mean until you want your hands on his body in a way you can't explain and you can almost feel his skin beneath your fingers and his mouth on yours, that sweet taste saliva gets when you're on a steady diet of cigarette smoke and pepsi-cola. Sweat on the back of your neck; you can't take your eyes off him in fear of missing a glimpse of the small of his back in case he lifts his arms to give you a sneak peak, but never on purpose. Watching him tip his head back when he drinks; long, drawn out swallows that seem to take all afternoon and make you dizzy with so much strange desire it almost hurts in a bittersweet way.
He's feminine in a way that makes him as helpless as the girls you've charmed at drive ins, diners and rodeos, the one-night-stand girls who'd trust anyone that bought them a Coke and stuck around while they drank it. Too nervous to look you in the face but dying to prove he's worth giving a damn about, the kind of guy who'd have no idea what to do with himself if he ever wound up with a girlfriend. The thought of him holding doors and picking up tabs makes you laugh, almost embarrassed for him because he'd look so damn foolish with a broad hanging on his arm, small as he is.
Such big, round eyes he keeps so trained on the ground, scared but not twitchy. You can't stand twitchy, anyway. Makes you want to give people like that a reason to scare so easy. Laughs only when he's comfortable, draws his knees to his chest when he sits on the couch, buries his face in the crook of his arm when he sleeps. Breathes so lightly you have to hold your own breath to make sure he's still alive 'cause he can lay staring at the ceiling longer than you can sit still any day.
He won't call you on it but he's caught you looking before. Doesn't know what it means, most likely, but he knows your eyes follow him when he crosses the room to flip the channels on the tv; maybe moves a bit slower, trying to understand why he might want to let you look a little longer. He's got dark everything. Eyes, skin, hair, everything. Dark hair he brushes out of his dark eyes with a dark hand. Dark dark dark. Arms, legs and chest hidden under all that denim.
Follows you around like a lost dog waiting for some acknowledgment, for you tothrow some scraps its way. Draws back when anyone tries to touch him but can't help it, any hand could leave a bruise if it wanted to, if he let it. Looks almost pretty with that black eye, never mind how sick the thought. Black and blue against the natural tan of his skin, he's so tired and weary all the time. Avoids talking about it whenever anyone asks, shrugging and lighting a smoke to try looking tougher than he really is. It never works and he knows it, makes you want to beat the shit out of his old man that much more. Watching him fall asleep on the couch of yet another house that isn't his, curled up in a bed not his own. Resisting the urge to invite him back to Buck's with you on more than one black-eyed occasion, not knowing what you'd do if left alone in a room with him all night. Wanting it but too confused to reach out and grab it.
He'd let you. You know it, too.
He'd look real good pressed against the wall. Short gasps for air as you undo his belt and draw your tongue along his collar bone, his fingers grabbing at your shirt like he's afraid he'll lose you if he doesn't get his hands on you. You're tangled in legs of denim as you try to find a rhythm that works for both of you, so lost in the moment you forget at what point which one of you started groaning from the friction, going crazy from the idea that anyone could just walk in and--
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder what the fuck you're doing. You close your eyes and roll over in hopes that a different position will bring about some form of sleep to break the long periods of insomnia you're so prone to when you can't get laid.
After all, you can't always get what you want.