Identity Art

21vines:

amatoresviridi:

21fuckingvines

 

I was standing there in the angular beige office, holding out my resume. The seated man with the bald patch leaned over the desk and reached out. In the subsecond moments it took for his hand to reach the trembling edge of my paper, I had a flashback to that spring night David and I spent the whole night on the couch together. We’d been messing around of course, and my mind flashed back to the part when he’d leaned away from me for a moment, reached for both my ankles, and then gently pushed them up over my head, the backs of my legs stretched straight up between us, oddly like a barrier, pressing both of our chests at the same time. But while my legs barred my chest, they bared something else, and I realized, in a moment, that this position created just as much of a doorway for him as it created a wall for me. Clever David. Always clever. 

For some reason this memory always makes me think of a big aging Lab and a soft teasing kitten, playing with the Lab’s paw while he’s resting. He could easily get annoyed by her little claws, snap, hurt her. The kitten doesn’t know what she’s doing. And she’s so soft, so vulnerable. 

The worn old hand reached my paper. I allowed him to take it from me. This was truth or dare, and for some reason I’d chosen both.