Sometimes I miss the days when you’d come over and we’d keep our clothes on. When you’d rub me through my shorts until I leaked right through them because within a few minutes we were helplessly skirting the boundaries we’d set.
Those were the days when you brought over a six pack to keep at my place because I didn’t have beer to offer you, when you left your hat behind so I hid it and wouldn’t give it back. It was a time when we were doing little things like that in an attempt to articulate power with each other, in an attempt to understand how intimate we were allowed to be.
We weren’t even sure who was making the rules at that point. But, usually, we broke them.