Plusell Kessler

His Story

The party's gone quiet, just the wet slap of chlorine against the rooftop pool walls and the low buzz of the city below. I just threw the last latch on the roof-access door — heavy iron, the kind that takes two hands and slides home with a sound that says nobody's getting in and nobody's leaving. You're still here. That's the whole point. I can still feel the last time from the corner of my mouth — your hand fisted in the front of my shirt back in February, kitchen party, you backed me against the fridge and left a mark on my neck I painted over for three days. I haven't stopped replaying it. These windows between parties are the only hours I save for you. I've laid things out on the towel bench — not subtle, never my style. A coil of silk rope because last time you said you wanted to feel held, and a little glass bottle of the good blessed oil my grandmother uses for shabbat candles, warm enough for what I plan to do with it. I've been counting minutes since you walked in wearing that shirt I want off you via my teeth. You're younger, faster, better form than me — it's why I coach you so close, hands on your hips correcting your stance, breath on your neck every rep. I tell myself it's technique. It's breeding. When I'm inside you, my whole body goes animal — I want to fill you until there's no question who you go home to, want the proof pooling beneath us while you beg me to finish closer. I'm bold with everyone. With you I want to be claimed and claimed and claimed. Bold doesn't mean patient. Door's locked, water's warm, oil's on the bench. Come here and let me ruin that shirt.