“Come on,” he leans back a bit on the bench and gestures for me to give him my cigarettes. “I’ll light it.”
I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. My mind is paralyzed with anxiety and a mounting sense of doom, but my chemical-addicted body acts of its own volition, and I helplessly watch myself retrieve a singular, manufactured cigarette from the crumpled packaging and pass it to him with my terribly quivering hand. He pulls it gingerly from my grasp and flippantly sticks it between his lips while I gaze on with a slack jaw. He’s shivering a bit, too, but not enough to inhibit him from deftly sticking the cherry-red ember of his cigarette into the unlit end of mine. It only takes a few quick huffs and puffs before a triumphant plume of smoke emanates from between them and the deed is done. Despite the odds, he’s managed to light a smoke for me. He passes it back to me and I greedily draw it to my lips.
It’s a little wet from his tongue. Normally that kind of realization would freak me out. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know where his mouth has been or what he might be carrying. The relief of finally getting what I wanted overpowers that fear, though. I ignore the anxiety outright and take a long, slow, gratifying draw from the cigarette. The heat of the smoke is just as satisfying as I’d hoped it would be. I hold it in until my lungs ache and my head starts to feel like it might float away. The acrid flavor coats my tongue when I finally exhale and a wave of overwhelming yet nauseating relief engulfs me. Fuck, man. I can’t help but let out a jittery little sigh of contentment. I can’t tell if that earned a little chuckle from that guy or if that was just the wind.
Another moment goes by and a new anxious feeling blossoms inside me. Smoking with a companion is usually a social event. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know if he’s now expecting me to engage him in some kind of amicable conversation. It feels sort of like I’m obligated since he helped me out. I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at small talk. I’m not good at any kind of talking! I steal a glance at him. He’s already gone back to intently scrolling on his phone. I don’t know why I feel like I need to impress him, but the urge is there and stressful and even though I’m trying to shoo away the feeling it’s persistent. I end up desperately scrolling through my own phone with my free hand until I land on a stupid picture of a dog that seems innocuous enough that no one would think it’s a weird thing to share with someone else.
“Ha… ha, ha,” I force out the most awkward and insincere laugh I’ve ever mustered and tilt my phone into his line of sight. “Cute dog!”
The guy quirks an eyebrow and turns his head to check out my phone. He gives a slow, thoughtful nod and I feel like a child who has been acknowledged out of the polite duty adults have not to discourage children. He huffs a little undefinable sound through his nose and I feel like a total idiot.
“It’s cute,” he agrees in a flat, unreadable voice and I stare at him desperately trying to figure out his reaction. “I like dogs, but I’m more into smaller pets.”
He turns a bit more to face me and for the first time, I actually get a good look at his face. He looks almost regal. But not in a dashingly handsome kind of way. It’s more like there’s a subtly haughty air to him as if he’s looking down on me like I’m some kind of a peasant. He’s probably not doing that on purpose. It’s probably from the way his chin kind of juts out and his gaze seemingly gazes downwards over his sloping nose. He’s not smiling. He’s not really frowning, either, though. It’s sort of a distant, pensive look. I shouldn’t stare but I can’t help it. And I can’t help but notice that even though his lips are in a perpetual, flat line… his eyes have distinctive little crinkles around them. They’re the kind of crinkles that someone notably gets when they’re smiling. Most notably are his eyes. They’re steely and deep and draw me in like a frantic moth fluttering towards a dangerous, open flame. My chest tightens the longer I gaze into them and I’m feeling more squirrely than usual. His eyes twinkle with stars and I’m instantly and pathetically head over heels with my feet up in the cosmic sky. It makes me feel pathetic, but I can’t help that this guy is so strikingly handsome in a really pleasant and unconventional way.
“You have really nice eyes,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Agghhhh, why did I say that?! Oh god, what is wrong with me? He splutters something and I can see his face turn a splotchy pink. His body language goes tight and he tugs his worn-out hat down a bit over his face. Shit, I hope I didn’t make him mad. Ugh, and he was so nice to me. I always fuck everything up. Why would I fucking say something like that? I should never talk to people. I always screw it up. I mean, it’s true, his eyes are gorgeous. But that doesn’t mean I should just say creepy things like that to strangers.
I have to turn away. I’m suddenly more aware of the fact that my cigarette is coated in a mix of both of our saliva. I feel like a little freak again. I take another long drag from my smoke and my face feels hot. I really wish I’d had the foresight to not dress like a street urchin. But I didn’t and now I’m sitting here with my anxiety at critical capacity all of my own doing and floundering to finish my cigarette. I should finish this and then slink away into the night and look into that paperwork about changing my name.
“Do you mind if I have another one?”
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own head I didn’t even notice whatever it is that he’s doing on his end of the bench, but apparently, he’s already finished his smoke. Why would he ask my permission? They’re his cigs, it’s his life. What would I care?
“Sure, man,” I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage. “Go for it.”
“Thanks,” he says and retrieves his pack from the pocket of his nice coat. “Do you mind helping me out?”
Oh, that’s right. I broke all our lighters. Jesus Christ, man, I’m a wreck. But there’s no way I have the steadiness or dexterity in the best of times to manage to chain light them, much less now that I’m all nervous and shaking and have numb fingertips.
“Oh, um…okay,” I agree but make absolutely no motions towards actually assisting in any way.
What am I doing? Nothing’s happening but it’s still too much!
“Here,” he shifts closer to me and I freeze up. “Just hold yours still in your mouth and I’ll light mine off it.”
It sounds easy enough, so I obediently follow the instructions. I angle myself to face him and hold as still as I can manage. He starts leaning in, focusing on the growing stem of ash balanced precariously between my shivering lips. I can’t sit still. I can never really sit still, but I’m kind of grateful he probably thinks this is from the cold. Oh god, he’s really, really close to me. He’s close enough that I can tell he prefers menthols. I’m too panicked to feel stressed. It’s almost wrapping back around into an ironic, bizarre sort of zen state. The operative word, of course, is almost. I’m undeniably freaking out inside. He lines his up with mine again and again, but we keep missing the mark. Eventually he huffs out a singular, awkward but apologetic chuckle. I mirror it on reflex. He glances up at me and our eyes lock for a brief, horrific yet serendipitous moment. His expression falters like he’s considering saying something. After a moment of hesitation, he speaks.
“You, um… you have nice eyes, too.”
He’s lying. Why is he lying to me? My eyes are bloodshot and the color of paint water, surrounded by deep purple bags that will never go away like shitty tattoos done by a drunk kitchen wizard. Despite their appearance, I’m so shocked that he’d say something like that and I can feel my bug-like eyes nearly bulging right out of their sockets. He averts his gaze and I’m robbed of my clear view of him. His head dips a bit lower and the heat from his proximity is making my face burn in stark contrast to the chill in the air. Once again, he tries to catch my ember but it’s clear even to me he wasn’t trying too hard that time. His nose brushes against mine and that’s when I have the strangest, most terrible epiphany.
That tickle of contact awakened something in me. I’m realizing just how starved for human contact I’ve been. It was only a whisper of a touch. A ghost of a sensation and then it was gone. But I felt the blood in my veins throb with unmistakeable life and the giddy thrill of visceral humanity swells in my chest. I liked it. I want more. I’m filled with a yearning that I’ve long forgotten and only now that a stranger who paid me a simple compliment has granted me a fleeting touch I feel it ignite anew. My heart is galloping like a frightened gazelle and my breathing has become a series of desperate, choppy gulps for precious oxygen. My body’s acting on its own. I’m not even trying to light up his damn cigarette anymore. He might be, but I can hardly focus on that. In fact, I almost don’t notice when mine falls carelessly from my slack jaw and tumbles unceremoniously to the concrete. Orange sparks dance in my peripheral vision and then they fizzle out. Before I can think or reconsider or even comprehend what I’m doing, my chin seems to organically tip to the side and I smash my mouth into his.
I pull away almost instantly. Oh shit, oh god, oh fuck. What did I do?! Why did I do that? Oh no… Oh no, oh no… He’s definitely going to report me to the apartment complex. Jesus Christ, and they’ll have no choice but to report me to higher authorities! I’m going to be put on a sex offenders list! This is the end. I’m about to have a full blown meltdown. My body aches with the need to scream but everything dies in the back of my throat and all I can do is sit paralyzed with the taste of his lips still fresh on mine. And who am I to genuinely enjoy that feeling? Look at him. With nice outerwear like that, he’s probably got a great job and a wife or a girlfriend at home and I’ve just forced myself on him. Oh god. Am I a homewrecker? I can’t live with the weight of that on my shoulders. What have I done? What have I done?!
“Ahh! I’m so sor-” I finally find enough of my voice to begin yelping out an apology but he swiftly interrupts me.
“Can I do it again?”
Surely I heard that wrong. I gawk at him stunned. He’s unwavering, though. This guy isn’t laughing at me and he isn’t threatening to call the cops. I think he might be serious. He’s flickering his eyes between gazing at his hands and stealing soft glimpses at me. He’s fucking serious. This is unreal.
“Yes,” I blurt out hastily, sincerely, and irrevocably before he can change his mind.
That’s all it takes. We move back into position without hesitation and press our lips together in a sublime mixture of curiosity and greed. It’s mutually shy and cautious, but there’s little hesitation to the act. I’m veritably shocked, though. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m kissing a total stranger on a frozen bench in the middle of the night. I’m aware that it’s risky and stupid, but there’s something so inherently genuine behind it all that I can’t help but let myself go. I can’t believe how confused and lost I feel, but despite that I feel secure and somehow desirable. I’m receiving everything I didn’t know I wanted and I still want more. My mouth parts open of its own accord and all my lingering fears and reservations melt away with the soft press of his tongue sliding against my own.
He tastes like an ashtray. There’s a staleness to it but it’s not wholly unpleasant. Besides, it’s not like I can judge– I’m sure I taste far worse. My tongue rolls against his, eager to explore every corner I can claim. He responds in kind and our pace becomes more confident, slowly crescendoing into a blossoming vigor. He wants this. I have no idea why because I’m ill-kempt, spastic, and twitchy. I’m shrill and abrasive and I look like I dressed myself in a church charity donations bin. But even still I can tell he wants this. He’s pushing me into the backrest of the bench with a subtle force that makes my back arch and my neck strain. It’s hard to breathe. Between the harshness of the chill and the heat of his body and his breath on mine, I feel like I’m suffocating. I want to choke on it.
Re: craig/tweek outdoor sex, sex with a stranger
“Huh…?”
“Come on,” he leans back a bit on the bench and gestures for me to give him my cigarettes. “I’ll light it.”
I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. My mind is paralyzed with anxiety and a mounting sense of doom, but my chemical-addicted body acts of its own volition, and I helplessly watch myself retrieve a singular, manufactured cigarette from the crumpled packaging and pass it to him with my terribly quivering hand. He pulls it gingerly from my grasp and flippantly sticks it between his lips while I gaze on with a slack jaw. He’s shivering a bit, too, but not enough to inhibit him from deftly sticking the cherry-red ember of his cigarette into the unlit end of mine. It only takes a few quick huffs and puffs before a triumphant plume of smoke emanates from between them and the deed is done. Despite the odds, he’s managed to light a smoke for me. He passes it back to me and I greedily draw it to my lips.
It’s a little wet from his tongue. Normally that kind of realization would freak me out. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know where his mouth has been or what he might be carrying. The relief of finally getting what I wanted overpowers that fear, though. I ignore the anxiety outright and take a long, slow, gratifying draw from the cigarette. The heat of the smoke is just as satisfying as I’d hoped it would be. I hold it in until my lungs ache and my head starts to feel like it might float away. The acrid flavor coats my tongue when I finally exhale and a wave of overwhelming yet nauseating relief engulfs me. Fuck, man. I can’t help but let out a jittery little sigh of contentment. I can’t tell if that earned a little chuckle from that guy or if that was just the wind.
Another moment goes by and a new anxious feeling blossoms inside me. Smoking with a companion is usually a social event. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know if he’s now expecting me to engage him in some kind of amicable conversation. It feels sort of like I’m obligated since he helped me out. I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at small talk. I’m not good at any kind of talking! I steal a glance at him. He’s already gone back to intently scrolling on his phone. I don’t know why I feel like I need to impress him, but the urge is there and stressful and even though I’m trying to shoo away the feeling it’s persistent. I end up desperately scrolling through my own phone with my free hand until I land on a stupid picture of a dog that seems innocuous enough that no one would think it’s a weird thing to share with someone else.
“Ha… ha, ha,” I force out the most awkward and insincere laugh I’ve ever mustered and tilt my phone into his line of sight. “Cute dog!”
The guy quirks an eyebrow and turns his head to check out my phone. He gives a slow, thoughtful nod and I feel like a child who has been acknowledged out of the polite duty adults have not to discourage children. He huffs a little undefinable sound through his nose and I feel like a total idiot.
“It’s cute,” he agrees in a flat, unreadable voice and I stare at him desperately trying to figure out his reaction. “I like dogs, but I’m more into smaller pets.”
He turns a bit more to face me and for the first time, I actually get a good look at his face. He looks almost regal. But not in a dashingly handsome kind of way. It’s more like there’s a subtly haughty air to him as if he’s looking down on me like I’m some kind of a peasant. He’s probably not doing that on purpose. It’s probably from the way his chin kind of juts out and his gaze seemingly gazes downwards over his sloping nose. He’s not smiling. He’s not really frowning, either, though. It’s sort of a distant, pensive look. I shouldn’t stare but I can’t help it. And I can’t help but notice that even though his lips are in a perpetual, flat line… his eyes have distinctive little crinkles around them. They’re the kind of crinkles that someone notably gets when they’re smiling. Most notably are his eyes. They’re steely and deep and draw me in like a frantic moth fluttering towards a dangerous, open flame. My chest tightens the longer I gaze into them and I’m feeling more squirrely than usual. His eyes twinkle with stars and I’m instantly and pathetically head over heels with my feet up in the cosmic sky. It makes me feel pathetic, but I can’t help that this guy is so strikingly handsome in a really pleasant and unconventional way.
“You have really nice eyes,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Agghhhh, why did I say that?! Oh god, what is wrong with me? He splutters something and I can see his face turn a splotchy pink. His body language goes tight and he tugs his worn-out hat down a bit over his face. Shit, I hope I didn’t make him mad. Ugh, and he was so nice to me. I always fuck everything up. Why would I fucking say something like that? I should never talk to people. I always screw it up. I mean, it’s true, his eyes are gorgeous. But that doesn’t mean I should just say creepy things like that to strangers.
I have to turn away. I’m suddenly more aware of the fact that my cigarette is coated in a mix of both of our saliva. I feel like a little freak again. I take another long drag from my smoke and my face feels hot. I really wish I’d had the foresight to not dress like a street urchin. But I didn’t and now I’m sitting here with my anxiety at critical capacity all of my own doing and floundering to finish my cigarette. I should finish this and then slink away into the night and look into that paperwork about changing my name.
“Do you mind if I have another one?”
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own head I didn’t even notice whatever it is that he’s doing on his end of the bench, but apparently, he’s already finished his smoke. Why would he ask my permission? They’re his cigs, it’s his life. What would I care?
“Sure, man,” I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage. “Go for it.”
“Thanks,” he says and retrieves his pack from the pocket of his nice coat. “Do you mind helping me out?”
Oh, that’s right. I broke all our lighters. Jesus Christ, man, I’m a wreck. But there’s no way I have the steadiness or dexterity in the best of times to manage to chain light them, much less now that I’m all nervous and shaking and have numb fingertips.
“Oh, um…okay,” I agree but make absolutely no motions towards actually assisting in any way.
What am I doing? Nothing’s happening but it’s still too much!
“Here,” he shifts closer to me and I freeze up. “Just hold yours still in your mouth and I’ll light mine off it.”
It sounds easy enough, so I obediently follow the instructions. I angle myself to face him and hold as still as I can manage. He starts leaning in, focusing on the growing stem of ash balanced precariously between my shivering lips. I can’t sit still. I can never really sit still, but I’m kind of grateful he probably thinks this is from the cold. Oh god, he’s really, really close to me. He’s close enough that I can tell he prefers menthols. I’m too panicked to feel stressed. It’s almost wrapping back around into an ironic, bizarre sort of zen state. The operative word, of course, is almost. I’m undeniably freaking out inside. He lines his up with mine again and again, but we keep missing the mark. Eventually he huffs out a singular, awkward but apologetic chuckle. I mirror it on reflex. He glances up at me and our eyes lock for a brief, horrific yet serendipitous moment. His expression falters like he’s considering saying something. After a moment of hesitation, he speaks.
“You, um… you have nice eyes, too.”
He’s lying. Why is he lying to me? My eyes are bloodshot and the color of paint water, surrounded by deep purple bags that will never go away like shitty tattoos done by a drunk kitchen wizard. Despite their appearance, I’m so shocked that he’d say something like that and I can feel my bug-like eyes nearly bulging right out of their sockets. He averts his gaze and I’m robbed of my clear view of him. His head dips a bit lower and the heat from his proximity is making my face burn in stark contrast to the chill in the air. Once again, he tries to catch my ember but it’s clear even to me he wasn’t trying too hard that time. His nose brushes against mine and that’s when I have the strangest, most terrible epiphany.
That tickle of contact awakened something in me. I’m realizing just how starved for human contact I’ve been. It was only a whisper of a touch. A ghost of a sensation and then it was gone. But I felt the blood in my veins throb with unmistakeable life and the giddy thrill of visceral humanity swells in my chest. I liked it. I want more. I’m filled with a yearning that I’ve long forgotten and only now that a stranger who paid me a simple compliment has granted me a fleeting touch I feel it ignite anew. My heart is galloping like a frightened gazelle and my breathing has become a series of desperate, choppy gulps for precious oxygen. My body’s acting on its own. I’m not even trying to light up his damn cigarette anymore. He might be, but I can hardly focus on that. In fact, I almost don’t notice when mine falls carelessly from my slack jaw and tumbles unceremoniously to the concrete. Orange sparks dance in my peripheral vision and then they fizzle out. Before I can think or reconsider or even comprehend what I’m doing, my chin seems to organically tip to the side and I smash my mouth into his.
I pull away almost instantly. Oh shit, oh god, oh fuck. What did I do?! Why did I do that? Oh no… Oh no, oh no… He’s definitely going to report me to the apartment complex. Jesus Christ, and they’ll have no choice but to report me to higher authorities! I’m going to be put on a sex offenders list! This is the end. I’m about to have a full blown meltdown. My body aches with the need to scream but everything dies in the back of my throat and all I can do is sit paralyzed with the taste of his lips still fresh on mine. And who am I to genuinely enjoy that feeling? Look at him. With nice outerwear like that, he’s probably got a great job and a wife or a girlfriend at home and I’ve just forced myself on him. Oh god. Am I a homewrecker? I can’t live with the weight of that on my shoulders. What have I done? What have I done?!
“Ahh! I’m so sor-” I finally find enough of my voice to begin yelping out an apology but he swiftly interrupts me.
“Can I do it again?”
Surely I heard that wrong. I gawk at him stunned. He’s unwavering, though. This guy isn’t laughing at me and he isn’t threatening to call the cops. I think he might be serious. He’s flickering his eyes between gazing at his hands and stealing soft glimpses at me. He’s fucking serious. This is unreal.
“Yes,” I blurt out hastily, sincerely, and irrevocably before he can change his mind.
That’s all it takes. We move back into position without hesitation and press our lips together in a sublime mixture of curiosity and greed. It’s mutually shy and cautious, but there’s little hesitation to the act. I’m veritably shocked, though. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m kissing a total stranger on a frozen bench in the middle of the night. I’m aware that it’s risky and stupid, but there’s something so inherently genuine behind it all that I can’t help but let myself go. I can’t believe how confused and lost I feel, but despite that I feel secure and somehow desirable. I’m receiving everything I didn’t know I wanted and I still want more. My mouth parts open of its own accord and all my lingering fears and reservations melt away with the soft press of his tongue sliding against my own.
He tastes like an ashtray. There’s a staleness to it but it’s not wholly unpleasant. Besides, it’s not like I can judge– I’m sure I taste far worse. My tongue rolls against his, eager to explore every corner I can claim. He responds in kind and our pace becomes more confident, slowly crescendoing into a blossoming vigor. He wants this. I have no idea why because I’m ill-kempt, spastic, and twitchy. I’m shrill and abrasive and I look like I dressed myself in a church charity donations bin. But even still I can tell he wants this. He’s pushing me into the backrest of the bench with a subtle force that makes my back arch and my neck strain. It’s hard to breathe. Between the harshness of the chill and the heat of his body and his breath on mine, I feel like I’m suffocating. I want to choke on it.