I daydream of you. I daydream that when I walk into your house, your eyes get caught on mine and can’t tear away. At your next party, I want to be dressed in a dress that makes me feel sexy. Ofcourse, some lacy lingerie underneath helps. I want you to watch me as I dance unnervingly close to another guy with a cup of liquid courage in my hand. I want you to down your drink as you see me grind the silhouette of my ass tight against my dress on him.
When everyone has left or passed out, you would find me nursing the last drink on the edge of your couch. I smell like alcohol and my strawberry body lotion. You are drunk enough to be dazed and spaced out. I catch you staring down the top of my dress as you come in to check on me. You invite me to sit in your room, away from the mess the night has created. I peer in cautiously, as if I were afraid it would reveal what it’s like inside your head. You place your hand on the small of my back and guide me in, as you have done innocently so many times before, not knowing that it sends shivers down my spine. I sit cautiously on the edge of your bed, feeling as if something would detonate if I moved.