When I was walking downtown, I thought perhaps I might find you here somewhere, waiting.

I thought I might look over when I heard a whistle, or a call, and see you there, leaning against a column, you my filthy fantasy, you here.

I think of this, of you in a doorway, of me here with you, of public displays of affection, public displays of lust, played out here on the wet streets, the streets after rainfall, puddles, the streets in the rain, people running, thinking us fools to stay in it but not surprised, not glancing close enough to notice your hand pushing my skirt up the side of my leg, your hand wandering, wandering to seek shelter, or delight, the wet heat you have created.

I think of you, your cock pressed hard up against my leg, my hand now wandering to explore, to wonder in the ever increasing size, I wonder if I unzip your trousers if your cock will grow like a beanstalk, your desire growing tall enough for me to climb up into the sky with the skyscrapers that pretend to protect us even as it rains on a summer night in the city.

I wonder if we climb high above the clouds, the rain, if the world is so big, so bountiful there, if there really are giants, if I slide back down, ecstatic in my fear, my thrill in the places you take me now, here, on a city street, right here, in a doorway where any giant might see, where any giant might stop us if he glanced, if he saw my legs wrapped tight around your hips, if he saw you push me up against a wall, if he saw you push your hips into me, push my head hard into your shoulder just when I want to cry out, just when your words push me beyond the limits of the buildings and the city streets and the sky itself. How can this be discreet? But you promise me it is, it is, as your raincoat shields our indecencies, as you whisper naughty things, sweet things, nothings that I cannot remember except for their tone, their taste, the raindrops that hit my forehead and roll down my face, tickling me as you rock me gently now, easing me back into the doorway, the sidewalk, my legs now nearly incapable of walking without you holding me up, and you do, you do wrap a hand around my waist and draw up your raincoat, hold out an umbrella to protect me, and walk with me through the city streets, onward, onward, into the fog, into the night.

One thought on “city

  1. max says:

    my umbrella (and more) are yours.

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