Fucking in the East Village is very different from fucking on the Upper West Side.
The first time I fucked in the village I was drunk and jealous, and we tore at each other’s bodies and hearts with a slightly innocent anger that lead to amazing sex. It was dirty and tender and we both knew that in just a few hours we’d be lying across someone else’s lap.
At 81st and Columbus it was a tryst that felt completely wrong, and so hot I could barely contain myself. It wasn’t supposed to happen and we both knew it as much as we tried to forget. I got lost in her red curls, and she turned his picture down on the bedside table.
The West Village reminds me of our three bodies in the shower, on the long couch by the exposed brick wall, and finally up in the loft without a window. You watched us, and it was my first taste of another man. We laughed as we struggled with something completely new, and he fucked you like a happy puppy as I held your hair.
The Upper East Side is blowjobs in central park and horrible food. We always found the worst places to eat and since we couldn’t fuck in the apartment we managed everywhere else. It often felt like an obligation that was better relived in a story than experienced at the time, but I loved you more than I could ever express with my body.
When I’m fucking under the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge my body is made of water and I always see the sun rise.