Jilling Off

I hide my nervousness by talking too much. It’s not my house. It’s not you that I’m with. It’s a stranger, a stranger’s apartment, and that would be okay if your touch wasn’t still burnt into my skin from a couple of days before. When he kisses me, he is soft, his hands slow, like he thinks we have all the time in the world, rather than the fast, frantic furious pace that you and I work at. He won’t be checking his watch the way that you do. He won’t be leaving me alone to go back to be with someone else, but still, my mind is not on the blow job at hand. It doesn’t feel right but I pretend to push past that. I gave myself a pep talk into the mirror in the bar after he had started holding my hand, and I give myself another one while I wait for him to come out of the bathroom. I can do this. I need to do this. And he is lovely, and he is delicate, and he is tender, but he is not you.