Incinerate me.

I went on a date the other day. It was a nice change of pace from the last one. They have these ice blue eyes and dark black shaggy hair. They wear oversized denim jackets and nice wool button-ups. They have this sweet little side smile, it was that smile that caught me. We met at a panel we attended about healing with touch, I figured it could be a useful tool to add to the club. They had this presence that was captivating, yet not overwhelming. There was a grace that I felt envious of. I complimented their long gray jacket and segued into discussing the panel. We shared our thoughts on touch, sensuality, and ways we want to magnify healing touch in our own lives. We paused and smiled at our conclusions. It was a long silence, but without discomfort. It was simple, sweet. I broke our stillness with a timid preamble of leading to the question, “could I take your number?”

After a few short text messages, they ask me for a date Saturday at noon. They suggested some galleries in Chelsea, and I my favorite cafe in the area. They made me shy and excited at the same time. The sensation of nervousness coupled with confidence is a peculiar cocktail. We gently touched brushed hands as we opened up about our lives over a pot of jasmine tea. Visiting the galleries we played a coy game of restraint and surrender. Brushing hands, standing too close, and grazing my body against theirs as I pass on to the next piece. It escalated until we stopped in front of this one piece. It was an abstract. The canvas carried rich illuminating tones of red, some blue, and gold. It was thick with oil paints and the depths were casting elongated shadows across the piece. It had both of our attention. They came up from behind me to whisper in my ear. They were so close I could feel the heat from their skin down the back of my body, without touching they leaned in, “what do you think she’s saying?”  

It was like they were asking me how I wanted them to touch me. My pussy began to tingle and my feet went numb. I stared ahead and took a breathe to catch my words again. “I think she is an easily excitable woman. She has a lot of unmet desire. But I think she knows exactly what she needs. There are these chaotic movements, with spaces of complete stillness. It’s unnerving and confident.” At that point, I wasn't sure if I was talking about the artist or myself. But either way, they liked it and grabbed onto my hips, it was the first real touch we shared. It was a touch that makes you take sudden, deep breaths. It was soft and comforting, yet had so much force. I had nearly let a small moan slip my lips. They could tell I was aroused and bashful, so they took my hand and we moved on. Visiting different, brightly light galleries filled with daunting price tags and our increasing excitement. As we wandered from room to room in one of their favorite spaces in Chelsea, we found ourselves in an out of sight corner with a gallery assistant too busy tending to an annoyingly curious guest. They looked over their shoulder, then back to me and kissed me. It was a kiss that I felt down to my ankles. They pressed their hips into mine and I could feel myself gasping with each thrust to my hips and pull of my hair. We only broke when we heard steps nearing and laughed quietly as we continued to observe a photo of a beautiful man in some river down south.

We left Chelsea with a new appreciation for abstract art and a second date. They escorted me to the Uber they called and opened the door. Before letting me go I felt their soft hands grab my arm and pull me back. They immediately kissed me, bringing my hips in strong against theirs, my pussy responded to each caress of their tongue against my lips. There is something about being intimate with a femme. The way they traced my desire with their mouth, the way they bit and pulled away. My longing has grown quite strong for this person. She incinerates me and I open myself to ashes.