I smell his scent on the air. There is cologne, and musty hair, and the all-encompassing gulf of sweat, and pheromones and testosterone; making me drunk with love. The taste of tobacco fills my mouth, and my heart races, as I push myself against him; legs feeling more and more weak. My thoughts lazily drift towards the musing that I may be getting addicted – though it would be easier to quit having never touched a cigarette in my life.
Music floods my veins. I laugh as I am carried forward in the currents of rhythm and dance. The saturated and rolled up bits of tissue paper in my ears block the deafening and brain-cutting noise; allowing for the enjoyment of it all. I am utterly lost in the sound.
Blood pumps. Clothes dampen. Pupils dilate. Eyes wander. Blood rushes.
I’m horizontal and can feel softness, but I’m falling back over and over again, and my head is spinning. He’s lying next to me, and I smile at his peaceful rest. My heart flutters and my stomach aches. Overcome by his beauty, I pull the pen out of my pocket and begin to paint his mysterious dark features which are spattered with dark hair. The three colours of paint I have are enough. The room is in hazy darkness and the drained hues are almost washed out completely. I’ll remember this moment forever, I decide – as I immortalise the strong and silent form. Feeling and emotion seeps into the canvass.
Where am I?
I look down. There’s a scrap of stained paper lying next to my leg with a sketch on it. It’s a shaky mess and it might resemble a human figure.
As the scrunched up ball of paper sails towards the trash can, a volt of stabbing agony shoots from front of eyes to back of skull.