boys in cars
MJ is 28 years old. He's caramel-smooth with moist lips, a winning smile and the firmest midsection I've ever slipped my hands under a shirt for. The club was crowded, I was drunk, the DJ had exhausted his arsenal of Lady Gaga, and I saw him looking at me, and I zigzagged over to say thank you, because it sounded sensible.
One kiss later he was offering me a ride home, even though he lived just 10 minutes away, compared to my 30. He wanted to be an astronaut years ago. Something about heavenly bodies. Speaking of which, the sun was rising outside and the only things taunter than my nerves at possibly getting caught on a stolen night out were- the seats of our pants. Nothing happened; we were speeding, talking about NASA and cinematography.
I may or may not ever see him again, but I'd love to in many, many ways.
One kiss later he was offering me a ride home, even though he lived just 10 minutes away, compared to my 30. He wanted to be an astronaut years ago. Something about heavenly bodies. Speaking of which, the sun was rising outside and the only things taunter than my nerves at possibly getting caught on a stolen night out were- the seats of our pants. Nothing happened; we were speeding, talking about NASA and cinematography.
I may or may not ever see him again, but I'd love to in many, many ways.