Just a trio of wholesome little connected vignettes, a meditation on the wonderful appeal of baseball across generations and the kindness of strangers that came to me while watching a game on Jackie Robinson Day. Hopefully will make someone somewhere smile remembering their first time seeing a baseball game (:
She should get up, wash the slick evidence from between her thighs, but her body still hums with the heat he left behind. The scent of sex clings to the air, the sheets, her skin. In the quiet that follows, need lingers. With His Name on My Lips is a story of aftermath, intimacy, and the aching pull between what was and what still burns.
When I find that my boyfriend's roommate is attracted to me, I start to play a game of letting see a little skin to see what he'll do. I pretend to not be aware of what I'm showing him though. The game escalates until I'm no longer in control of the situation. It all happens in their apartment early in the morning over breakfast as my boyfriend sleeps in the next room.