Monterrey.

You like that, begging, pleading, spreading out for your display. Makes me think of Monterrey. Me pressed against a cold glass pane, asking over and over and over for you to finish with me. My thighs propped up and tired while you clench fully my throat from each side, me becoming your mold and shape, you knowing where to hold in order for me to still breathe. You command, “Don’t move, ma.” Those gripping hands now permanently a part of my own anatomy, I even feel them when you are in another place, taking over me from far away.

How did you know to do that to me? To touch me so I would remember you forever, to never forget you and that tight, hostage-like embrace. You whispering in a redundant mantra, “Fuck, ma…” And adding in between each measure, “Do you know how much I love you.”

And to be continued in part 2.

Excerpt from scene.

Between Jerusalem and Mexico, a taboo love.