I don’t know how exactly this began. Maybe you said you liked my shirt, or maybe I offered to grind on you or maybe somehow, the Harris crowd pushed us together to dance, in that strange, serendipitous way that it often does. But here we are, and you’re holding me and I’m pumping my hips against you, feeling you harden beneath me as I stroke your face.
You don’t need to know my name and I don’t need to know yours. Your name doesn’t matter right now, and neither does mine. Right now, you and I are exactly what the other needs. Maybe you’ve just been ditched by the guy of your dreams, or maybe I’ve seen my crush with another girl. It doesn’t matter right now, because we’re both enjoying this as much as we can. I dance for you, winking at my friends as you dance against me, your hands on mine as you place them on my stomach, you holding me to you.
You lean over and kiss me. Or maybe I kiss you first. It doesn’t matter because you’re holding me and I’m holding you and we’re rubbing up against each other. Every few minutes, you lean down and I lean up and our lips meet. It feels great, really great.
You smell like beer and sweat. I smell like the three lime-a-ritas that I downed before I came here, to remind myself that this doesn’t matter, and this is fun. We’re having fun. I normally hate parties like these. I hate the fact that everyone smells unwashed, and the fact that the floor is slippery but sticky at the same time, and the fact that all of the pizza, no matter what flavor, tastes like sand. But I love the feeling that alcohol gives me, and I love the pumping music and the inevitability that I’ll find someone, anyone.
You are anyone to me. And I am anyone to you. I’m fine with that. You and I are the only ones who matter right now, as we dance in the middle of Harris. People surround us–someone even pushes me–but you catch me, placing my hands on my stomach, and putting yours back on top of mine to balance us.
I don’t know who suggests it, but you have a single, so we’re walking back to your room. Your nose is in my hair, and you’re leaning on me as we support each other through the slippery ice from Harris to your room. It’s in Loose, or Rose, or Younker. They all smell like beer on Saturdays anyways, so it doesn’t matter. Even the sub-free dorms smell like booze.
We enter your room with the neon lights and you take your shirt off. I’ve lost mine too, slowly dancing out of it. I grab your hips and you take mine, and this time we’re dancing without the music as we kiss again, my fingers finding your hair and your arms wrapping themselves around me as you fondle me and I run my hands down your chest gently, pressing me to you.
I don’t know exactly when we end up in your bed, but I’m running my fingers over your body, and you’re touching me, holding me, loving me and my body. And I’m moaning, hearing you gasp atop me, unless you’ve flipped me on top. We’re using each other, our bodies perfectly intertwined. Which I don’t mind. Right now, I’m lost in the lust.
I’m not thinking about tomorrow, when I’ll sheepishly leave your room, my hair tousled and my clothes wrinkled. I’m not thinking about two weeks from now when I’ll see you in the dining hall, and our eyes will meet before one of us looks away. I’m not thinking about next semester, when you show up in my Sociology class and we have to spend the entire damn semester trying to pretend that the other doesn’t exist. I’m not thinking about the fact that I will be here again next weekend, and if not here, then in Loose, or Rose or Younker, or any of the other dorms, lying in a bed with a stranger, an acquaintance, a person. Anyone.
All I’m thinking about is how good you feel against me. You’re mine and I’m yours and as the snow falls outside your window, nothing else matters.