Ravage

It's 1:11. Make a wish.

There will at some point be a post about how I caved. How I went, post-concert, to a restaurant in the West Village. How I chose the dress so that he'd want nothing in the world as much as he wanted to taste the shape of my neck. How I dazzled an entire Brazilian soccer team.

All of those details will follow.

But, for now, it is 1:11 on Thursday night and I'm making a wish for two boy-hands on my hips. I wish to find fingertip bruises in places that make me bite my lip tomorrow. In about five minutes, when I go to bed, I want there to be someone there telling me, "Turn around. I want you from behind."

It's not polite. It's not about the holding afterwards or breakfast the next day. Right now it's just about my mouth and tongue and lips and teeth and hips and breasts and thighs and hands. It's about someone to wake me up at 2:11 to whisper into my ear, "Again. Wake up. I need you again."

It's 1:11. Wishful thinking.