A few minutes in and your head was already on my shoulder. I thought of the countless times I've had strangers leaning on my bony excuse for a shoulder. I thought of where they are now. I thought of the many months I've been alone without a boyfriend. And that made me decide to relish that moment. How I wished I had a bulkier body so at least my shoulder can give comfort both in a physical and an emotional way.
For the second time, I saw Harry's end unfold before my eyes. And as I feasted on my childhood hero's final scenes, your hands feasted on my body. I thought of how ludicrous that was, yet there you were, caressing my hands.
Your hands traveled to my arms and to my neck. They traveled to my chest and my tummy. You slid on your seat so you can reach for the legs of my pants. You slid your hand in and felt my leg muscles. Other times, I might have found that infinitely more enjoyable. But Harry Potter was fighting for his life out there, and I thought this was supposed to be a serious date. You knew how to make me feel desired, that was true, but you also made me feel like a slab of meat, and you're the chef, selecting which parts of me were worthy enough to cook.
You did the same for my hand and placed through your pants and on your thighs. I tried to slid my hand higher but I couldn't reach any farther, so I satisfied myself with drawing lazy circles on your skin. You said that my hands were warm.
You placed your hands on my neck and traversed my stubbly jawline. Then your fingers settled on my lips and lingered there, as if willing them to open. You took a hold on my face and pulled it closer to yours. I panicked. I refused. It was too public.
You placed my hands on your neck, then you made me massage your forehead. I held your face as tenderly as I knew how, and then suddenly, your face was much too close for us not to kiss. Your hunger was apparent. I whispered that there were people behind us. You did not care. The first time, I refused. The second time, I swooped down on you and landed my lips on yours.
Then I felt your tongue attempting to penetrate my mouth and I had to unlock our lips. It could have been so hot if we went on but something kept bugging me. I knew something wasn't right. I really thought it was a serious date.
But what I told you instead was that there were too many people around. You did not believe me. You said I just did not want to kiss you.
We stood up before the credits rolled in, and you hurried outside the cinema. I had to walk at a faster pace just to keep up. "Where next?" you kept asking. I suggested that you need to have some dinner first but you ignored that. All you said was "Where do we go next?"
It was your impatience that kept bugging me off. Even when we were just talking on the phone, you kept asking me "What next? Say something. What next? Bry. Bry. Bry!" and it was all I could do not to snap at you then and there.
I asked you why you asked for my number in that extravagant yet impressive manner and you said you were looking for something more serious. I made it a point to make you aware that I wasn't looking for any (more) fuckbuddies and I thought you understood. I did not see you for sex.
We planned the date the night before. And even though I was vexed at you for leaving me to arrange the whole date when it was you who invited me, you were sweet enough to ask, "What if I don't want to let you go home?"
We were nearing the mall exit when you asked, "Are you going home?" and I said "Yep!" with perhaps, much more enthusiasm than I originally intended. And you rushed out of the doors as if you were that eager to get rid of me.
The next thing I knew, you were leading me to the bus stop. I didn't really want to go just yet. It was still early and we haven't even had a real conversation.
"Why can't we stop for a bit and just talk?" I asked.
"Where? Where do we go next?"
"I don't know. You're the one who should know this place better."
You said nothing and kept looking at the buses.
"Do you really want me to go now?" I asked.
"I have a headache."
"Okay. I'll cross the street."
"I'll go with you."
But you did not. When the stoplights turned red, you let me cross the street on my own. For goodbye, all you said was "Hey, thanks for coming. Text me when you get home."
And I didn't.
And now you're gone.
And I feel bad because you make me feel that I'm not good enough to be your boyfriend. I'm not good enough for you to try harder.
You thought I was just good for sex. And when I refused, then I was good for nothing.
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