Explosive Lover

        “All night,” Matt whispers in my ear, and this crystallizes in my mind; it’s the first time, he called me this morning after a ruined breakfast, using the number I’d scribbled for him on a slip of paper that I had in the Jeep. I notice that at some point he has taken off his undershirt so he can be bareskinned under his sweater. I’m not sure if this is for his own sensual benefit or my viewing pleasure, but I’ll take the latter.

        Matt’s balcony looks downhill so you might see, on a clear night, lights from the street below through the living room window. I am lying in his arms on the couch, my back to his chest, our necks twisted impossibly so that our lips can meet, he is rising and turning toward me, I touch the softness of thin wool tight over thick delts and a broad back, steam seeping from his skin through the fine weave and onto every ridge in my fingerprints and the way that he is pushing and turning into me obliterates every other thought I might start to have.

        I run my hands under his jaw up his neck on his head over his fine short buzz cut, creating a zipping sensation in my palms as he rolls up the bottom of my top. “Some people have a roll here. You have a bankroll,” he jokes, slapping my abs playfully.

        “Shut up,” I say with a laugh.

        “Don’t do that,” he scolds softly, leaning back to see me better. I take in his bodybuilder’s frame in the soft light.

        “Ha!” I say, purposely hardening my core.

        “Jesus fuck, you asked for it.” He unzips my jeans and unclasps my bra. “I never slept with a model before.”

        “Upper body model,” I correct. “They never showed my face or my boobs.”

        “What’s that mean?”

        “I just modeled sports bras and exercise equipment and stuff.”

        He takes off his sweater then, revealing a jumble of unassociated tattoos—a band around one bicep, a circular symbol on the opposite delt, and, when he gets up to turn the lights down, his last name, Downing, in old English lettering arcing across his back—the ink like mismatched skyscrapers whose visual cacophony all combines for the harmony of one unique and unmistakable skyline.

        He shrugs, and the images shift. “Works for me,” he says, pressing into me.

        Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be at his apartment every moment I get, jonesing for a fix of him.