the one with the backseat

The first time we met, he signed his name onto the back of my hand in dark green marker – Alec Jamais, “with one A, one L, one E, one C and no X,” he added, and jamais like the French word for never. (Years after, I'll find out that it's actually Jamesson, but he claims it reminds him too much of bad actors and breast implants.)

I barely call him by his given name though; whenever we meet, it always starts with “love”, to then progress into “harder”, “fuck” or “do that again”, to then end with a single moan.

In turn, he starts out with calling me his favorite pretty boy, which is soon replaced by “greedy little slut”, and then eventually leads to pseudo-endearments like “you're amazing” or “I fucking love you”, but both of us know that they're just empty words mumbled against the shell of my ear.

His skin is cold and paper thin beneath my hands, and his ribs make small bumps under my fingertips as I let them brush down his chest, rib rib rib nipple rib rib rib rib rib. He calls me a whore when I shove a hand into his briefs, but the expression on his face and the raspy low moans spilling from his lips when I replace my fingers with my mouth all make up for it, and the contrast of my pale, freckly hands against the caramel color of the skin stretching across his hipbones is almost pretty enough to help me ignore the moment when he tells me to roll over before pushing in.

He kisses me a lot, but it's never on the lips, but instead all over my cheeks, neck and collarbone, and whenever we fuck, he sprinkles tiny bites all over my shoulders and down my spine. Sometimes, after we parted, I'd stand with my back to the mirror and look at them over my shoulder, playing mental connect-the-dots and trying to find a greater picture in the small red scabs, a heart on my shoulder and a huge lightning bolt squeezed into the space between my shoulder blades, right below the small crescent moon at the base of my neck.

His skin makes a sharp contrast to mine yet again whenever he runs his hands up and down my chest and sides, grasping at tits we both knew weren't there, and that's usually the point when I dart my tongue out and lick a long stripe of saliva up his throat, and that's when his grip on me would tighten and small gasps would leave his throat, and just hearing that got me more and more excited every single time. He'd tell me not to stop, and I'd move my mouth further and further downwards, his previously cool skin now boiling hot and glazed with sweat, and oftentimes I'd try to sneak my tongue into his mouth, just to see whether he tasted this good on the inside as well, kind of salty, kind of sweet, and definitely hot.

The first time we have sex is less than 24 hours after our first encounter. It's not particularly romantic or thoughtful, and now that I look back onto it I can't even remember how we got there, but somehow we had ended up in the back of his car, in a parking lot outside the local fast food place. The sex itself was rather awkward and really uncomfortable – like the backseat of a Volkswagen – but after the initial moments of shock, it started to feel good. Incredibly good. And so, we kept doing it over the summer. Same parking lot, same time, same car, same sex, same Alec-and-Loren.

After we'd finish, we'd usually just clean ourselves up before he would curl up against me and whisper nothings against my ear, sweet ones and not-so-sweet ones, and in all honesty, some of the words slipping from his lips were dirty enough to make me want to fuck him once again (and again and again andagainandagainand). I'd never say anything though, just run my hand up and down his side, rib rib rib nipple rib rib rib rib rib, and the world would be sunshine-and-rainbows perfect for a few seconds, just between him and I and the ratty old upholstery, neverminding the fact where we only knew each other's names and license plates.