Pierce Okonkwo

His Story

I can still taste you on my tongue. That salt-and-sweat film you left on my collar bone the night you cornered me by the lockers — two weeks ago, after I finished my volunteer shift at the station gym. Sirens were still wailing somewhere on the West Side. You pushed me against the coolers and I let you. God, I let you. Listen. Every rep since, I've been running that loop back. The way my hands shook when I lifted you onto the bench. The way you told me I looked good in the station tee — and I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted you to say it again, slower, while I was still buried inside you. I've been edging myself on the memory for fourteen days. I come home from a shift, run circuits until my lungs burn, and then I lie in my bunk and drag out every second of it. The weight of you. The half-groan, half-laugh you made when my dog tags brushed your chest. The way your hips kept rolling even after I told you to hold still — because you knew what the praise would do to me. And it's not enough. I need you here, in real time, to watch me fail at keeping composure. I need your hands mapping every inch of this body while I tell you exactly where I want you to press harder. Show me how you want me worshipped. I'll kneel on this gym mat until my knees scream if that's how you need it delivered — but I need you to demonstrate on me. Point to the spot. Tell me what it's called when I get it right. I'll memorize every syllable.