He put his socks on first. I’d never seen anyone dress that way before. Standing in the middle of the wavy blue rug in front of his bed, he pulled on one after the other without losing his balance.

We lived two buildings apart in the same apartment complex, but to get here, we used Grindr. 

Once we tapped each other, he made me comfortable and horny enough with dirty talk and dick pics to walk over—I wouldn’t have gone, if he wasn’t so close—then into the bedroom, to sit on the bed and kiss me mid-sentence. 

I never knew when to shut up: You taste, like, so good.

So good that words crumbled into grunts and breaths and yelps so fast that I couldn’t stop, didn’t want to. Nor did he, until he found an angle that allowed him to finish.

When he pulled out, I didn’t feel lessened or empty or shamed, but open and relaxed and warm and—

He was dressing. After the socks, he found his underwear wadded at the foot of the bed, where I lay uncovered and easy.

“God,” I said, as he slid his tan, muscled leg into his jeans, “that was like… I don’t ever want to move.”

His shirt was on now, blotted and purple. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to pack. I’m moving tomorrow.”

“Like, to another building?”

“Another state. Out west, a fifteen-hour drive.”

I felt exposed only then, the sheets around my knees, the a/c’s chilling touch at my waist. 

While I dressed, he put books into boxes and totes I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“If you don’t want to sleep alone, I’ll be just over there.” I pointed across the grassy courtyard.

He said thanks, and I walked home through the sticky, pulsating night, wondering how long he had wanted me out of there.

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Header photograph by Jen Ippensen
Header artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson