Making you cum is a dream, it’s all I imagine, well, that and what it would be like to have you text me back. Is it still a fantasy if it’s simple, or am I too manic now to have fantasies? Instead of asking you any of this, i jerk off thinking about the time you called me on the phone outside some party and told me you were thinking about me.
What did it mean when you texted me at 11:10 PM on April 14th and said “Sometimes you just need to get ridden hard, you know dawgie.” Do you even remember that, or have you blocked it out, how I used to block it out. I would fuck you in your glass closet, if you would just ask.
I really shouldn’t keep convincing myself i’m in love with you, or even keep texting you, but I just moved here. I spend so much time laying shirtless on my cousin’s green leather couch, letting myself sweat until i’m stuck to the cushions. I don’t get up. I don’t start to touch myself. I just think about you loving me back, biting my neck.
Cleaning off my stomach, shutting off my phone, closing my laptop, trying to figure out what I can get done before I need to fall asleep, pretending you didn’t leave me on read for four days. Making endless to do lists. Finding a job. Finding a place to live. Cumming, twice a day, like clockwork. Tick tick tick tick tick tick, do you love me yet?
Jo Barchi is a writer from Rhode Island. They currently live in Chicago where they work in an ice cream shop. They are an editor at Ghost City Press. Their work has appeared in Shabby Dollhouse, and elsewhere.