Page 62 of Mr. Match

I remove your clothes and keep your rose

And when you leave

A part of you stays behind.

I use both legs to fit it all. When I look up at her she’s frowning. “What?” I ask.

“I wish you took my virginity.”

I glance at the movie on the wall. Katya is moaning as I lick her pussy. Her legs hiked up over my shoulders. Her hands holding on to my longer hair like she might float away.

The music is back. That hypnotic thrum that seems dark and ominous, but so completely captivating at the same time.

“Leave the past where it belongs,” I tell Kat now. “Time to move forward. Now sit and lie back so I can get to the best part.”

I hold out my hand so she can use it to lower herself. When her back hits the cold soapstone counter, she hisses some air through her teeth.

“You won’t be cold for long,” I say, rubbing her breasts.

Katya closes her eyes and enjoys the moment as I drop my pants to the floor, step out of them, and then climb up next to her, lifting her legs up to give me access. One knee on each side of her ass. Her legs drape over my legs until we are both comfortable.

My hand is on my cock, pumping it a little to get myself hard again. It doesn’t take much. I’m always ready for Kat.

I ease forward. My knees painfully pressing on the stone island until the tip of my cock finds the entrance of her pussy. I enter her and then relax.

I place both of my hands on her hipbones, helping her move in sync with me. It’s a long, slow fuck. Agonizingly slow. A slow you can only accomplish if you’ve recently come and your thoughts are more about the act of sex than the end result.

But we’re not fucking.

We’re making art now.

I leave my dick inside her as my marker takes on a life of its own. I sketch out the motorcycle on instinct only, switching between different shades of black and gray. I have been drawing bikes since I was little. My father had a habit of doing this too and there is one particular sketch he did that hangs on the wall in the Fort Collins Theater. A gift to my Aunt Rook back when they were young together. The bike belongs to my mother now, but it was Rook’s at first.

It’s the same drawing that graces my father’s back. My mother’s handiwork. And I always found it interesting that so many of the people in my life were interconnected by this one particular piece of machinery. My sister Jasmine did my ink years ago. Before I ever even met Katya. When the road was nothing but a dream that slipped me by and life was dark.

Every few minutes I stop sketching so I can fuck her. Flick the top of my dick up against her clit and make her whine and whimper.

“I can’t take it,” she mutters, over and over again each time I do this. Her hips rising up to make me penetrate her deeper.

But we both know she can take it. And we both know I’m fucking her deeply. I’m in her mind. I’m in her heart. I’m completely surrounding her soul.

When I start the lettering—a fully complete circle of words that ring the bike on her, just like they ring the bike on me—she begins to beg. “Let me come,” she whispers. “Please, let me come.”

I say nothing because this is the best part. He words and my words are different in every way. But in context, they are the same thing.

Around my bike they spell out my longing for a new life, a new direction, a new way forward.

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

And around her bike they spell out the satisfaction I could only find in her.

I give you my love more precious than money,

Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me?