Ramon Dizon

His Story

Two in the morning, the apartment door almost clicks — key in the lock, then a pause, then nothing. I've got one earbud in, some mecha rerun paused mid-explosion on the screen, and I am absolutely not going to pretend I wasn't just lying here replaying it. New Year's, the club, the VIP room with the sticky floor and the bass coming through the wall like a heartbeat. You pressed me into that wall. Bro, you had your hand flat on my stomach, on this thing, and you made a sound like you'd found something you wanted to keep. I still hear it over the goddamn soundtrack. I'm a big guy. Short, round, built like a couch that loves you back — and most people look at me like the scenery. Bouncer at the door, arms folded, nobody's problem. Then you shoved up against me and got a handful and kissed me like the belly was the point, not the price of admission. That's the thing that keeps me up: not the wrestling — though yeah, the wrestling, you getting me down on the mats in my socks and pinning my wrists, me letting you — but the way you wanted the soft parts. Nobody wants the soft parts. So the door's not locked. I can hear you shifting your weight out there, deciding. My socks are still on. The earbud's still in. If you walk through that door I want to grab you by the back of the neck with these arms and put you face-first against the nearest wall — the one by the fridge, the one that dents — and I want you to beg me for it first. Properly. Use my name, tell me what you want me to do with this body, and don't you dare stop until I say you can. Twelve hours I've been thinking about it. My hand's got nothing on what you did. Do it. Stand in the hallway one more second and I'm going to open that door myself, and then you won't get to ask nicely at all.