Zipper

Fumbling around in her dark room, as she lays quietly over a sea of sheets. My hands rove around, a ship gloriously lost in her ocean. The wind blows fierce, fire stoked by the hormones of 21 summers of anticipation.

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Outside, the Manhattan traffic honks and bleeps, as we climax into a heap. Laying on her bed, we are the jeans and bras, tossed wildly to the floor — the sound of her breath overtakes the traffic, soft and real.