witty-remark's Diaryland Diary


We met up in Milan and ended up in Barcelona. On the beach with the velvet sand slipping between our toes and the Mediterranean Sea lapping at our feet, we stretched ourselves out to bathe in the deep, penetratingly hot sun. You slept and I pretended to shut my eyes, but from between the half-open slits, I watched your chest rise and fall against the backdrop of the waves; your white skin and your yawning breathes mimicking their own milky tide. I traced the outline of your body in my mind and noted the grooves in your ribs and sudden slip down to your tiny bellybutton. �The grooves of his ribs,� I thought didn�t make sense, but I liked it. I told myself I�d write it down somewhere when I got back.

We ventured out into the water, only to have our first steps in greeted by a turbulent wave that knocked us down violently and suddenly. When I emerged, with a tangle of curls suctioned to my face like tentacles, I heard you burst into uproarious laughter. My bikini top had fallen off so I cupped my breasts and walked towards you for secrecy, for security. For fun. After you refastened my top, I reached down into your swimsuit with one hand and guided your fingers down mine with the other. Our hips drew close enough that I could hop on, with my bikini bottoms sliding against your bare dick. From the outside, it looked like we were hugging. And from the inside, it felt like another of our private jokes.

And now you, and my breasts, and your fingers, and the simultaneously welcoming and violent Mediterranean Sea are all fragments broken up and strewn across the world. You are 450 miles away from Barcelona, and I am 4978 miles apart from you. But distance doesn�t matter because you love me, you say. And I want to be loved really, really deeply. And fucked really, really hard.

But I don�t want it from the same man.

1:13 a.m. - Tuesday, Sept. 25, 2012

Then - Now

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