The Tuning

I keep picturing it —

the first time you come to my apartment.

I am shy with it.

This is not a club. This is my door.

I chose the white skirt for you.

And for me.

The leather sits tight along my thighs,

tight over my backside,

shiny enough to give me away

before I have said a word.

I chose to leave the light low too.

And for me.

Enough to see you.

Enough to hide how much I already want to be seen.

Already I can feel the leather

warming where it should not.

The seam pressing back

like it knows something I have not said yet.

I think of your hands.

Warm. Steady.

How they would play me

as if I were an instrument

you already knew the tuning of —

find the string,

press,

listen for what note I make.

My blouse is already telling on me.

I can feel it.

Then: your breath at my neck.

That mouth. Those soft, filthy little words

you would only ever say into my ear.

Bite me.

Bite my neck, slow,

like you are choosing the exact spot

where I will still feel it tomorrow —

a note held past where it should end.

You put me to the wall.

You stand behind me.

Nowhere to go.

Caught.

Open.

Still.

I turn my head to the left

and you kiss me from behind.

I cannot step away,

so I press back instead —

slow, against you,

the leather of the skirt

and the heat of your body

with nowhere to put it.

Take my skirt off.

You do.

It goes down.

The blouse is silk.

That is not what is soaked through.

I know how this could end.

I have thought about that too.

Not tonight.

Tonight I only wanted you

to find me already playing —

before you even knocked,

before you found the string.