Walking the High Line, we fuck everywhere.
The bench over there with the couple watching us as they kissed through shielded hands; the wall beneath the hotel, in a shadow perfectly placed to give us minutes of biting thrusts; the elevator that somehow doesn’t open until someone calls it down; each one was a new story.
As we walk back through the village, the stories are the same. We climbed into a loft we can barely see from the streets and fucked on their oversized bed as the dog growled through the closed door. In the stairways to the bar that never opens, I knelt on the chipped stone and buried my mouth between her thighs as she smiled at the few tourists who paused to stare.
In the park it’s under arches, against trees, and in the boats that bob like apples in the shallow pond. We pass rooftops with perfect views, museums designed for clandestine blowjobs, and tiny apartments where I tied her to brick walls as we whipped pleasure into perfection.
Hand in hand, we walk and walk, looking up and down, as the images fill our heads. Some days we walk for hours, the stories spilling from our lips before we pour ourselves onto a bench, and I wrap her in my arms and hold her forever.