I know you think it was all about your hair. And I guess I'm less shallow than I give myself credit for, since it totally wasn't. Nor was it the erection. I mean really, what girl doesn't take that as a compliment? I'd be worried if you didn't get one.
Really it comes down to that old line; it's me, not you. And it was. Still is.
If anything, you were too good. So much better than I expected. You played my weak spots, your hands as skilled as any pianist. I clung to you like a junkie and even now a craving for you crawls through my veins.
I glanced back before I left, just to savour one last look at you. Your jeans were still around your ankles. My lipgloss was smeared across your right cheek, down below your jaw, like a glittery treasure map. You stared up at the ceiling and those dark, dark eyes were still wild with hunger.
It was enough that picture. I had done this to you. I had made you want.
The tears came as I sat on the bus and realised there was no turning back. What was done could not be undone. I looked down at myself, my rumpled dress, my shaking hands. The window left me with nothing but my own reflection to stare at. My lips were swollen, red raw where you had bitten me.
But there was no ache. Nothing, but the bitter sting of what might have been and the piercing fear that the chance may now be gone forever.
And I would be left disgustingly pure until my last breath.