I Want To Go To There

We were on the middle bench in the left row, closest to the outside edge. My head rested in your lap as your hand caressed my stomach; you were facing the ocean and I was facing you; your eyes focused on me while I studied a gray button on your shirt.

Photo Credit: James and Mary Bilancini / Flickr (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0) (Cropped) Black means WHAT?!*

Photo Credit: James and Mary Bilancini / Flickr
(CC BY-NC-SA 2.0) (Cropped)
Black means WHAT?!*

You bent your body down towards mine. Your vampiric teeth bit through the black jelly bracelet on my wrist, which you lifted in your mouth as you straightened your back, slithering the broken strand of soft plastic off my skin and dangling it inches above my lips. Taunting was always your strong suit.

When I extended my arm, you positioned your hand where the bracelet once lived. My wrist was tiny and your fingers settled into their new home with ease. A perfect fit.

Each of our remaining hands found their way into the same situation. My mind was unfocused and my body was wobbly. I assume you must have enchanted my bones, much like you were mesmerizing my brain.

Left with no option other than to retrieve my property the same way you acquired it, I leaned closer to my prize. Your eyes were light brown but had strange lines of yellow. Some might call the combination hazel. I thought they looked like pineapple slices.

Somehow I was able to prop myself up just enough to touch my mouth to the hanging vinyl thread. Maybe you helped me by lifting your legs. Blue paint chipped off the old bench beneath us, falling between the boardwalk cracks and landing among coarse sand, prickly plants, cigarette butts, bottle caps, and so many other lost and forgotten items. The dark denim covering your crotch bunched and your metal belt buckle snagged on my shirt. We didn’t notice.

I wrapped the exposed end of the severed bracelet around my tongue, pulling us closer. I assume you did the same with the hidden end. Sea-salt lingered in the air, blowing in from the vast body of water only 50 feet away, and glossed our lips. I previously thought mine to be full, but they paled in comparison with yours.

The square overhead light in the ceiling flickered at just the right moment. You let go of my wrists and placed one hand on my hip, the other on my cheek. I reached up and tangled one of mine in your rust-colored hair as it swept across my neck. I think I held myself up with the other.

The bracelet disappeared for a moment and there was no longer anything in our way. It was still there in the crevices, but tricked us into believing it has dissolved with the chatter of the people around us.

And our lips and tongues and jaw muscles did all the things you read about in lust-ridden romance novels.

I don’t remember how long it lasted. I don’t remember if we embraced or glanced sheepishly away once it ended. I think we opened our eyes and devoured every facial feature of each other — your chiseled cheek bones and narrow jaw, crooked teeth and lavish lips, lightly freckled skin and astoundingly average nose; my rounded face and dimpled chin, tiny straight teeth and shapely mouth, porcelain skin and just-a-bit-bulbous nose.

When we arose from the middle bench in the left row, the sand continued to scatter in the breeze, the sea continued to creep in closer to town, our friends still played their music too loud and scared off the tourists, who still walked on the wrong side of the boardwalk and clumsily tripped over their sandals-and-socks clad feet and scoffed when our cigarette smoke billowed too close.

Photo Credit: DowntownOceanCity.com This is once the city redid it -- before it was the "Childrens Pavilion," it was ours.

Photo Credit: DowntownOceanCity.com
This is once the city redid it — before it was the “Children’s Pavilion,” it was ours.

The stained roof of the structure sagged, the light still flickered, the off-white decaying posts were covered with inked love notes and short memoirs and signatures bearing witness to secrets. We may have added our own. The railing remained slick with mist.

I remember you announcing, “You’re mine,” which I refused to believe at the time. Silly me.

 

*Yes, my friends and I wore “sex bracelets.” Yes, we knew what they meant (although our meanings might have differed a bit from others’). Yes, black meant sex and yes, if someone broke it off your wrist, you were supposed to do what the bracelet meant. However, we mainly wore them for fun. We liked to think we were more sexually adventurous than we were. This piece is about a first kiss, we did not have sex (this day).

And, just for fun (because this is the very first thing I thought when I read the Writing 101 Prompt, hence the title):

 

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5 thoughts on “I Want To Go To There

  1. Haha I loved it!

    I’m just going to through this out here because it’s something that I’ve been reading about in my writing books lately – on different narrative perspectives.

    First person is super personal – and gives the reader a really serious experience.

    Second-person is fucking awesome. I think a lot of people may feel offended or estranged that you would dare to refer to the reader as “You,” thinking of the kiss. Yeah, this post is “addressed to the one you kissed…” but, as a reader, I’m not gonna lie. It felt like you were telling a intimate story about you and I lol. Very close.

    I’ve been writing in second-person a bit lately, addressing the reader as, “You,” and I find it really plays a trick on the reader.

    Just remember – this is dangerous as well as it is invigorating. Some readers don’t want to have a memory of a kiss like that – some readers don’t want to know you “that closely.” It is hard for some people.

    You know what I say about offended readers, though, screw em’. Write your heart out. Show the world what’ it’s meant to be shown. Have courage, my writing friend. Ink is in your veins, and you will own the masses with a swing of your pen.

    Keep up the good work.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you so much!

      I too often use second-person. I tend to vary — I am attempting to write a memoir and one of the purposes of this blog (along with random creative writing and spouting my opinions) is to piece together parts of my life so I can eventually go back, edit, and string them all together. I felt using “you” in this piece did make it more personal, of course the end result was different than what I intended, but I’m surprisingly pleased.

      I completely agree with you about offended readers. I’m not here to please anyone — it’s nice if I do, but my main intention is to publicize what I feel needs to be out there, whether it’s happily accepted or not.

      Like

    • I spent hours researching them online in order to find the perfect picture and article to link to explaining them.

      In turns out, even Snopes believes they’re a rumor — something paranoid parents overreacted about. I laughed when I read all the articles “debunking” them. They were definitely real. Turns out, they have roots in the 80s when Madonna and other musicians wore them, but in the 2000s teens turned them into a sex game. Most of us didn’t take it all too seriously though, like I noted.

      And thank you so much=] I’m still worried the descriptions of the pavilion itself seem forced and unfitting — I tried hard to describe it for the assignment, but ended up getting immersed in describing the kiss and threw in the “place” aspect at the end.

      Like

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