Photography by Adele Plamquist

Your fingers reach out for me slowly. Despite your burning hands, your gentle touch sends a shiver down my naked spine. My forehead is sweating at the sight of your smooth chest and I am suddenly overwhelmed with a longing to touch you. You run your hands through your hair, completely aware of the fact that I am watching your every move. I watch you because it’s sexy. I watch you because I can’t help it.

I never thought it would happen this way. But it is happening right now. There are no burning candles to set a romantic mood, and no dim lighting to conceal my body. It is mid-day, and you can see everything that I am. There are no eighteenth-century works of art on your walls. Instead, you’ve got a giant poster of Amy Winehouse staring at me as I begin to lie down beneath you. There are no rose petals lined up on the floor leading to your bed—if I can call it that. We simply fall upon your bed of straw like two animals looking to conquer each other.

When I look up at you, you’re asking me about my day. That’s so cavalier of you. I listen to every decibel of sound your mouth produces and realize I want to be lost in it. As if reading my thoughts, you make my tongue feel like a welcome mat until you’ve sucked all the air from my lungs. Your mouth tastes like iced tea—the sweetened kind. My voice grows quiet and dry while yours becomes slippery and persuasive. My brain is a carousel that spins out of control beneath my skull, and I can’t find anything to grasp on to—there’s just you. And you continue to speak so delicately while my eyes glisten with this craving inside me.

You tell me to close my eyes, and I begin to feel tense and tightly bound like the strings of the guitar that sits across your room. I feel your soft fingertips caress my face and the reverberation of your quiet sigh echoes through my desperate eardrums. As if my body has its own tuning pegs, you twist them until I can’t take it anymore. But now I’ve learned that yours turn, too. So I turn them carefully with no intentions of loosening the tension. I weave us and your bed of straw into a haystack. I become the sharp needle in your back that makes you constrict and fall to my undulating mercy. You still try to pull on my strings even though I have you figured out. I only have so many strings, but so many more threads make up your body. And I want every single one of them.

We are near suffocation in this little haystack. Nothing but our own mouths can supply oxygen to each other. Our bodies are contorted but we no longer feel pain. We are together in this mess we’ve made. It feels so irresistibly satisfying. I want you to feel this pulsating desire the same way I feel it in my heaving heart.

I begin to wonder if this is all a figment of my imagination. But you are not. There you are, gleaming in beads of sweat, whistling a mellow tune in my ear. You appear hesitant. That’s when I realize what is going through your mind. You’re looking for the needle in the haystack that is us. But you’ll never find it. It’s buried deep within me, waiting to be released by my senseless longing to touch you all over.

My touch holds us together. Yours has the ability to unravel me like a paper streamer. And you do. You always will.

After one quick moment, I realize a horrifying truth that soon becomes less frightening and more appealing to me: I’ve dropped the needle, and now it’s gone forever. You found it while you were unravelling me.