Own It

I never know your schedule. You don't tell me, because you don't keep in touch. When you come home, I only know by the bustle coming from outside, when you come through the driveway and literally run into your parents' back door.

I hear your voice. It's early summer and I have the window open. The temperature has been rising, in more ways than one. But weather-wise, it's in the mid 70's. It's a welcome respite from the cold mornings of spring. I am not missing the chilly dawn frosts which had been greeting me on my way to class in the mornings.

I wonder what kind of mornings have welcomed you where you've been living for the past year or so.

But now you're here. How long will you be staying?

I think of something to get from my car. I am shameless.

I slip on a pair of shoes and run outside, but then I stop rushing. You are still inside your house, if I'm not mistaken, and you can't see my driveway from your driveway. I have to catch you at the right moment for us to see each other from our respective back doors.

I'm already outside. I rummage for a moment in my front seat, looking for something I've already found. Then, I hear a car door from what sounds like a few hundred feet away. Is that you? Did I pull this off?

I turn around and head back towards my house, rising up my back stairs to view your yard from our porch. Sure enough, there you are, shouldering a duffel bag, heading from your car towards your rear door again. But your eyes are trained straight ahead, away from me. You don't glance behind you even slightly, not even to check if the screen door is secure behind you as you hurry away.

You know I am behind you, figuratively. Even if you're not aware I'm actually standing there, you know I'm still living in the house. Maybe I'm home, maybe I'm not. You must know better than to let yourself glance behind you.

Right?

Your screen door banging shut feels hollow in my chest. It happens too quickly for me to handle. Shit. I'm left on my porch, alone.

I nailed the timing so well, and we still missed each other. I'm disappointed.

I look down at the thing I had grabbed from my car. It's a folder from my one of my classes. I pop it open. It's something meaningless I hadn't needed in weeks and lost track of. It has first-week paperwork in it, and the whole thing should probably get recycled.

I'm staring at the various types of junk stuffed into the folder, which includes papers stapled together, paperclips and other things that can't be recycled. I'm contemplating how the heck I deal with separating all of it, when I suddenly hear your screen door and fast footsteps again. Before you run off, you come to a halt in your driveway.

"Hey."

My midsection turns to ice, then lights on fire. How I stay on my feet is a mystery, though my brain communicates to my eyes an instruction to look up.

"Oh, hey."

"Hey," you repeat. "How long have you been there?"

"I just went to grab this from my car."

True. Fucking true. I am not making that up.

"I just got home."

That seems true, too.

"Huh." Great response, brain. Awesome. "How long you around for?" Better.

"Just ten days, then I'm going back for a summer program."

"Oh shit, that's short."

I'm so vulgar, I'm the worst. This is why your mother hates me.

"Yeah, I know. That's why my mom filled my schedule with all this... stuff the whole time I'm here."

Ah, but see? She's also the worst. Is this you preemptively letting me know that you can't see me while you're here? Already giving me excuses?

"Oh, that's too bad," I indulge you.

"So, what are you up to?" you ask.

I am shocked you are asking me, and I'm almost rendered speechless.

"What? Right now?"

You nod.

"Not much of anything. I'm not working today," I answer honestly. I had thought about going to the gym, but honestly, never mind the gym. "What about you?"

"Well, I'm not supposed to be here right now. No one else is around, and I'm hyped up on about 4 hours sleep and six coffees. I got in a day early."

"Where are your folks?"

"They aren't even back from some mini vacation they went and took. They come back tomorrow."

You're chattering, which can mean so many things. You want me to invite you in. You're bored. You're nervous. You're flirting. You have news to share. You're already told me you're wired. All of the above. I'm confused.

Why do you make me second guess myself?

"Do you want to come inside?" I ask you, deciding to take the plunge. "There's no one here, either. Everyone's working," I decide to add, in case you cared or were expecting to say hello to anyone on my side of the fence.

"Yeah, sure," I'm surprised to hear you say. You stutter your steps as you begin to jog towards me, then double back towards your door to shut it.

When you join me on my porch, up on my territory, I realize how long it's been since we've seen each other. This is the longest we have been apart since we've met nearly 6 years ago. If you've also contemplated this, it doesn't show. That detail had not crossed my mind until this moment, and shocks me. I push it down, considering how much it emotionally jolts me.

Your eyes always strike me first. Then, different pieces of your face. Your lips. Your hair. Your jawline. Then, your hands.

This time is no different. Suddenly you are in front of me, and your presence takes me over. I almost hug you hello, then we both think better of it. We've never felt the need to hug hello before. We used to see each other nearly every day, and now we don't.

Additionally, because of our current age, the time we have spent apart has allowed both of us to do a small but significant amount of growing. There has been a shift in energy between us, while most of our movements, synchronicities, and language is the same.

Instead, we give each other a simple once-over.

"I promise to not give you anymore caffeine," I tell you, playfully.

"Please don't."

"Would you like anything else? Regular water?" You accept. "Hey, I moved into a larger room upstairs," I offer.

"No kidding. Thank god," you answer.

"Thanks," I answer, sarcastically.

"Well, I'm just saying. I think some prison cells are bigger."

"You are kind of the worst."

"Who even built this house?" you say, continuing to jab.

"I don't know."

"Someone who doesn't know anything about architecture?"

"Yeah. So, you?"

"Funny."

You take your glass of water and begin to head towards the foyer. I follow you, as if you're giving me a tour of the house I already live in.

"Where's the cat?" you ask me.

"You mean Felix?"

"Yes! That one!" Don't play coy with me. As if you could confuse him for another cat.

"You know he's been gone for a while. Remember? We lost him before your family lost your cat."

"Did you?"

I am very confident in being correct about this irrelevant fact. You shoot me a skeptical look that tells me you still don't believe me.

As I'm digging up events in my brain to reference specific time periods to prove which cat existed at what time, you start up the stairs without any preamble. When you reach the first landing, your conscience decides to look back at me.

"Oh, would you like to go somewhere?" I ask. I am regaining control of this conversation.

"I would be curious to see what you've done with your new space," you say, sounding slightly entitled.

"Ahh, I see. Well, in that case," I breathe, feigning misunderstanding. I begin to walk up behind you. "Go ahead. Now it's the first door on the left." I crack a half smile to let you know I'm not a complete asshole, and you return my smirk as your footsteps continue up the stairs.

We get inside. My room feels small with another person in it, especially someone like you. I wouldn't describe you as a dominating person, per se, but you take over spaces you share with me. I offer you my desk chair, as it is the most practical choice in terms of guest-seating options. You don't sit right away.

"Am I your first guest?"

Oh, are we doing this? The inquisition. Well, the best way for me to deal with this in the past, as long as we're both in a good mood, has been to not answer the question you are actually asking.

"No, I have my friend Alicia over sometimes," I answer. I sit in a chair I keep on the opposite side of the desk, which I often hang my bath towel off of. As I settle into it, I give you a side-eye, knowing I haven't provided the answer you want.

You say nothing.

"We have wine and watch Friends re-runs."

"I see." You sit, and sip your water.

"Anything wrong with that?"

"Absolutely not," you answer.

"Oh, okay."

"Anyone else?"

I balk. I really wasn't expecting you to dig deeper. "Okay, I was dating someone. Is that what you want to know?"

"I knew."

"I knew you were seeing someone out there."

"Yeah, I was. It's over."

"So is mine."

"What happened?"

"He moved," I say. My tone may or may not give away that I got more invested than I planned to be. It took me by surprise how upset I was when he left.

"He did?"

"Yeah. School," I say, simply.

"No long distance stuff?" you inquire.

"No," I answer, still keeping it simple. This is a more detailed line of questions than what you usually ask about guys I date.

"So," you drawl, and lean forward on your knees slightly, "he's not me, right?" Your voice is low, like it always is when you ask this question. Even though there's no one around to hear or see us, you practically whisper it in the privacy of my bedroom. "It wasn't... us?"

I look at you with a cocked head, almost peering at you through a veil of my hair. If I wasn't so compelled to tell you the truth, I would be terrified to look you in the eye and answer this question. But, just like in the past, I meet your gaze and confirm, "No. Of course not."

You smile, look at the ground, then some of your arrogance bubbles to the surface. Perhaps it was percolating with the caffeine.

"He was no good for you," you say, leaning back off your knees.

Here we go.

I keep a modest amount of liquor in my room near where I'm sitting. I glance at it. "Listen, I know it's early, but I'm not working today and if you're going to start acting like that, maybe I'll pour myself something."

I notice I have a half-empty bottle of red, which otherwise won't require shaking, stirring or any other prepping. I tell you I'm going to run downstairs to get a glass.

"You don't want any, do you?" I hope you say no. I think I need all this for myself.

"No, but can I smoke in here?"

"Of course not. Are you crazy?"

"Hey, just checking."

"Smoke what, even? Not that it matters."

You look at me like I've disrespected you. "I wouldn't ask to smoke cigarettes in your family's house."

"Oh no, of course not," I mock. "Just weed."

"Don't even tell me that they don't smoke."

"What? Here? Now? Does it smell like we smoke here?"

"No. Maybe. Or, like... back in the day?"

"So, it's fine if you smoke in my room today because maybe they used to get high a long time ago?"

You stall. "Maybe."

"I need to start drinking faster. Bye." I disappear downstairs.

I half expect you to holler something sassy at me while I trot down the stairs, but I hear nothing. I go to the kitchen, ashamed of myself when I realize I am almost skipping. I get a wine glass, then pause for a moment. You really are upstairs, right now, sitting in my bedroom. You were not there just 30 minutes ago. Or an hour ago. Or a day ago.

What a difference a day makes.

I begin to hurry back because I also realize you are unsupervised, and that is probably a bad thing. You are curious, and not above snooping.

Sure enough, I walk back in to find you out of your seat, peering at the photos I have perched in various places around the room.

I waste no time in pouring the wine I promised myself. You hear me and turn.

"These are good pictures," you comment. You are alluding to some group photos we are both in, which I have printed and tacked up. Some of them are years old. Some are only from last summer, just before you moved away.

"Yeah. I've always liked them."

You take a double take when you glance back over at me, taking a break from your prowling around. "Are you really having wine?"

"Absolutely," I answer. "I was serious when I said I didn't have to do anything today."

"Like, nothing?"

"I was only thinking about going to the gym, since I have the day off."

"Oh. Do you need a workout?"

I freeze. You've got to be kidding. I look up, and you haven't moved closer to me. In fact, you are back to looking over the photos. Infuriatingly, your actions aren't following the bold statements coming out of your mouth.

Typical.

I am not in the mood for this. Not this time around. I'm cutting out the middleman.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," I say, returning your boldness. "Do you want to give me one?"

Silence.

I know you. You will either give me some sort of enthusiastic signal that you are game to move forward, or you will try to get yourself out of my house as soon as possible, because you will be terrified I've called your bluff.

I'm unsure which direction you will take, but I'm very curious to see which--

"Do you want me to give you a workout?"

Oh, fuck you. I drain my wine like a shot of Jameson.

I look up to find you looking squarely back at me, no longer avoiding my eye. This isn't a game anymore. Even though you won't explicitly say it, because you never will, you are letting me know what you are here for.

God, why can't we just be honest with each other? I let you in for a reason, didn't I?

I take a beat before answering. As I do, I feel the wine hit me all at once. I privately remember I didn't have a substantial breakfast and also put off having lunch. This was obviously a fantastic plan.

My judgment is immediately influenced, and my tolerance for wasting time is lowered to almost zero.

"Actually, I was considering, if I skipped the gym, to just take a hot shower. To loosen up my muscles."

"Great," you hum back at me. "Can I offer you any... assistance?"

Now we're getting somewhere.

"Possibly."

"Possibly?" you smirk, and take a few steps closer to me. I haven't sat back down yet. I'm still standing next to my makeshift bar, with the now empty wine glass. You come closer, stepping directly up to me.

Here you are. Your attitude. Your confidence. I thought I might not see it, or it was gone. But no, you're still here. I think this is what I was waiting to see. The part of you I was missing the most. The part of you that knows I am yours. I always will be.

"Is that all?" you continue. "Don't screw with me, babe," you say, playfully.

"Don't screw with you? Isn't that why you came inside?" I meet your eye.

I did it again. I backed you into a corner, one where you need to make a decision.

And I desperately want you to make it. The empty glass safely out of my hand, I turn to open my shoulders more towards you and stare you down, just as you've been staring me down.

With what seems like lightning speed, your hands are on my body, and your lips are on my lips. My body feels like it's floating as I realize what is happening, and allow myself to be taken in by your touch. It's all coming back to me, as I remember how you feel. Everything is the same, and it's all as perfect as it ever was. My hands levitate a few inches above your skin in disbelief, before settling in your hair, trying to let you know how much I need you to keep kissing me. I feel our bodies settle into each other.

I realize you grabbed me so quickly so as not to change your mind. I should probably follow through with my suggestion of the shower before we get caught up in this moment and change course.

I am suddenly distracted by your firmness pressing into my body. You don't develop against me as we touch, like a polaroid coming out of the camera needing to be waved around for a minute or two. You were hard from the moment we connected. You're so ready for me.

I tear myself away from your face long enough to breath, "Follow me. Two minutes." I pull my bath towel off the back of the chair I was sitting on and push it into your chest. Then, I use every ounce of willpower I have to turn on my heels and leave you alone in my room. I head to the bathroom.

When I'm alone in the bathroom, I confess the first thing I do is confront my reflection in disbelief. What is happening? I ask myself.

Everything you wanted, I answer.

Then, I get to work.

I start the shower. I undress. I don't have a hair clip, but I do have some hair ties and bobby pins, so I put my hair up. This isn't a practicality shower. This is an activity shower.

After swishing some mouthwash, I step inside the now steaming shower. Thank god we have a decent water heater. I evaluate the state of the rest of my body. I run a razor in expertly-fast lady-fashion over my most pivotal areas. When I'm finished, you still aren't there, and I choose to do some more luxury-based prep activities.

I begin grinding salt scrubs on areas you are sure to be touching. The legs I just fast-shaved. Ouch. The bikini area I just cleaned up. My thighs, my butt, my shoulders, neck, and décolletage. My stomach and breasts. My whole freaking body?

Just as I'm rinsing some of the grainiest crystals off my skin, I hear your unmistakable footsteps and the creak of the door. You didn't chicken out. I half expected you to go back to your house in abject terror. This is amazing.

You shut the door behind you. I hear it click closed. We're alone. Only a few seconds later, I see the shower curtain moving to one side and your feet stepping in.

We haven't seen each other bare in so long. You've filled out a bit, and so have I. We've both lost some of our literal and metaphorical baby fat, while also surely eating more fast food in between our new class schedules. The freshman fifteen isn't always a myth, and I'm not even full time.

But, damn it. You're still a treat. You're so tall that any changes in you have been handled well. Your legs seem a bit thicker and your shoulders a tad broader. Your hair, which my hands were just buried in, is grown out a bit, along with your scruff, which I had already noticed. I still find you delicious, and always will.

Your eyes, potentially for safety purposes, begin on the tub floor as you come inside. You're watching your step. As you close the curtain behind you, your eyes move across the porcelain, drifting from the safety of your own feet, over to mine. That leads you up my legs, and then it's all over.

I'm mostly facing away from you, towards the stream of the showerhead, as you enter from the other side. I'm still fairly self-conscious about my breasts, a fact you already know about me. I turn towards you, mostly showing you my side. I see your eyes travel up my legs, my hips and waist, up my shoulders, then to my face.

You are past the point of no return. I can see it.

I had forgotten how you do this to me. Any self-consciousness I had about my body mostly melts away as soon as you come for me. I forget to be coy about my body when your eyes begin to burn into me. My shoulders pivot towards you. Similar to when we stood in my bedroom, your hands reach out for me with an amazing precision. Your fingers land on my now wet, warm skin.

I pull you into me, closer to the heat. You feel cold compared to my body temperature now. Even your cock, ramrod strong into my thigh, feels chilly, like steel. I reach down briefly, raise up onto my toes, and separate my legs a bit, while I maneuver your manhood to settle in between my thighs. Let me warm you up.

As I fit us together, our hip bones touch. I both feel and hear your voice activate inside your throat, as your tongue explores my mouth. I love when you're hungry.