The Immoral Compass

If I weren't....

In the secret lamplit silence, your hand might have stayed, strayed where it merely lingered, shyly, for all too brief a time. (but there would have been bruises. If I was lucky.) Your hands would have tangled in my hair and I would have felt your skin on mine (and that would have been bad but so good)

"This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me." In a car, in the dark, a terrible mixture of pity, disgust, guilt and love gone stale. I would have broken your heart long before I broke mine and felt no guilt (but I hate it when you cry)

The intoxicating scent of your cologne, the sea breeze in my hair, your sweater warm against my bare arms. Breath warm on my ears, whispers. I would have flaunted you shamelessly, and reveled rather than hid. (But I wouldn't have gotten that kiss - god it made me dizzy)

I would have played you like a violin and made you scream (but it might have woken the neighbours)

I would have said "I can't" instead of "it doesn't matter" (it did, it does, but I can't help myself and yet it bothers me)

It's odd, writing this. It was always about prolonging the pleasure, and not inflicting the pain. How very unSlinky of me.