At the theater

We giggled like schoolchildren, fogging up the windows. I was overcome by lust. He was too young, too soft. I knew better, but couldn't resist.

His mustache tickled.

We stopped. Too much, too soon. Another time, another place. Thought and planning.

I warned him. I'm so sensitive there. My breasts. Don't tease them.

Later, he couldn't stop. Stroke stroke stroke. So lightly. I wanted to kick and bite and urinate on him. I said, 'Pain. Just pain. None of this."

He could not stop. He wanted to coax them into eager peaks. I begged him to alternate with pinches or twists. Anything, just not so much softness.

Is that impertinent?

I grew to hate him. In moments. I made him leave, long before the planned departure. He called again, once. Said nothing, just...why didn't you say what you wanted?

I rolled my eyes and waited, silent, for him to hang up.