My Sexual Frustration Peaks-- Violently.

I have never want to touch someone as badly as I wanted to touch L. in class today. It wasn't even all sexy touching. It was mostly just touch touching. He was right there beside me, inches away, so close that every time he moved his hands, he was encroaching on my proverbial "personal space," and I was literally aching to know what his skin felt like. Blood pounded in my fingertips and I couldn't sit still. I wanted to pull the back of his t-shirt up and run my hand over the smooth, warm skin at the base of his back, feel his muscles moving. I wanted to press my fingers against each vertebrae in his spine, feel bone against bone. I wanted to touch his fingers; the knuckles, the chapped skin on his palms because he never wears gloves and Chicago winters are windy. I wanted to rub our cheeks together, feel his scruff grate against me, scratch me. I wanted to bump jaws and teeth and hips. My knees kept jabbing in his direction, desperate to knock knobs with him. My toes, hidden safely inside my shoes, wanted to kick up gently against his-- leather and leather, skin and skin, bone and bone. I wanted to climb onto his lap and sink into his ribcage and his sternum, press my cheek against his shoulder, smell his collar bone, kiss his neck. I thought my insides would burst out of my skin, sitting that close to him without actually touching him. But I made it through, somehow, and when I got out of the classroom, I could breathe again. But my fingers still burned for his back.

Unplayed Piano

I am an unplayed piano. Unplayed by you. My keys, all smooth and ivory, are gathering dust while they wait, dying to be touched. By you, mostly, but there are some days where I just want someone, anyone (almost) to play me, apply slight pressure here and there to make rich, fine chords come out, burst out from inside of me, clearing dust and age and sadness from my depths.

Make me sing, music boy. Write your songs on my spine and behind my knees and along my fingers. Kiss your lyrics into my neck and collar bone and hips. Fuck your beats into me, make me feel what you feel. Pound the keys, tickle the ivories, tell me a story with notes, chords, words, in a song.

I feel something inside of you when you rest your fingertips lightly on my black and white keys, barely making contact. Something that is almost ready to come out, burst out, sing out. It's moving inside of you and I feel the vibrations like bass lines under your skin. But then you take your hand away, the dust collected on my keys still embedded in your fingerprints, and let your arm hang loose and limp at your side. But your fingers are still buzzing, electric with the song we could have made, if only you'd played me.