Van Morrison doesn’t know shit about real love. This? This is real love.
You were never the type of man I would have gone for. Wispy mustache, tattooed arms, and ill-fitted flannel shirts. Yet.
Your awkward tight-lipped smiles are endearing. You share your strawberry-peach vape with me after meetings and never bothering wiping off my lipstick. Sometimes, when we’re standing together in the parking lot you linger a little too long and that has to mean something.
You told me after your third meeting that your family forced you to come to AA after they found you passed out covered in your own vomit on the living room floor. You of course looked embarrassed, and I told you I realised I was an alcoholic and a sex addict after I slept with my cousin’s boyfriend, drunk off banana flavored 99’s.
All I could really think about that night is if you were dominant in bed. Or are you more submissive?
Two meetings later you asked me to be your sponsor.
Tonight just like most nights, you were planted next to me on an uncomfortable folding chair, stoic, refusing to share. No matter how many times I asked. Even when you do nothing but stare absentmindedly at the chairperson you are still utterly enthralling.
Eventually you noticed me staring, you mouth ‘is there something on my mustache?’ as you brushed any lingering crumbs from lunch off. You laugh dryly, trying to hide your embarrassment. Soft and airy: do you sound like that during sex?
I feel fifth grade itchy like the morning before a field trip.
You shift in your seat and spread your legs open a little wider.
Are you cut or uncut?
Your eyes—perfect. Dark brown, almost black, wide, endlessly expressive. Do you look at everyone like that or just me?
I spent my entire life looking for someone like you. I love how vulnerable you are. I love how you told me once you can’t commit to movies because they feel too long. I love how dumb you can be sometimes, how you laugh when you shouldn’t. We could be perfect for each other. I could love you through all your faults and relapses.
What would you taste like in my mouth, cock shoved into the back of my throat?
You rubbed your temples, annoyed. The chairman is rambling about drinking everclear with coffee and masking vodka breath with Japanese mints.
Could you love me through my relapses? Could you love me right where you don’t make me feel like a nymphomaniac like my ex’s?
Your fingers are calloused from years in the military, dry. What would your hands feel like on my hips guiding me down? Or would you prefer to bend me over a table?
You’re waving your hands in front of me trying to get my attention. I force a smile and you tell me you love Brown Eyed Girl, you have it on repeat to get through the shakes.
Van Morrison still doesn’t know shit.
