I was thinking back to that day in the museum.
I was thinking back to sitting in the museum cafe with you. You ordered something with polenta. I was drinking gewürztraminer, but I don’t remember at all what I ate, or if I ate.
All I remember was my cunt pulsing wildly after you fucked me in the men’s room.
It was glorious, you know. I remember sitting in the restaurant, with jeans and no panties, the seams sticking to my wetness. I remember that sudden warm rush as I shifted, and your come gushed from my pussy, soaking my jeans.
It made me hot with want for you then, love. You know? I wanted you then, wanted to take you back home and fuck you wildly all afternoon.
These moments are my museum, you know, these collected works of fucking you. Of loving you.
I wonder how the critics would see these works over time. Would they scoff at the sheer indecency of it now, proclaim it genius later? That is the way, the stereotypical response of misunderstanding.
Or would they find it forever nostalgic drivel? Love is such a common sentiment, after all.
But it inspired me then.
I think of all the moments I never would have enjoyed with you, if I had seen them without the lenses I wore, the ones that cast a pink happiness on everything we were.
You had the best of me, when I loved you.
No. That’s not really true.
You had the best of me when I thought you were the one in love.