Anybody ever see a picture and think, “God, I need to write a book about that girl?” This is a little flash fiction piece written for one of those pictures.
Ages 18+ only please, for sexual references and very explicit adult themes. If that’s not your cup of tea, you may want to skip this post.
The air washes over my skin, tickles across the shaved sides of my undercut. It runs like water, thrills me like fingers. This touch gentle, not like the guy from last night.
He was deliciously rough, his hands too big. It’d be too much on a daily basis, but for one night, it was just enough. He’ll wake up soon, probably see the line of my naked back through the window and try to talk to me. Mostly, when they realize I won’t speak in return, they leave.
I like it, though. Those moments when the men’s voices rise in agitation as they realize I’m naked in front of a whole city. The moment when their protests hesitate in the face of all the fucks I don’t give, and they try to decide what they’re going to do. While I try to guess what that’s going to be.
They’re strong enough, even the smallest of them, to put a hand on the chilled skin of my back and push. There’s no railing on the ledge I dangle my feet from, no edge to grab at the last second as my coffee cup plummets to shatter just before I do on the concrete below. There’s something to that, a dark, empty wind of a thought. They’re strangers. They can push me.
But even in that single most titillating moment, I know what they’re going to do.
I inhale the dark roast steam off my cup and cradle it in my hands, hunching my shoulders to guard my pricking nipples from the chill of the morning breeze. Dew dampens the concrete beneath the cheeks of my ass. I turn my cup in my palms to get a fresh burst of warmth through the ceramic.
I never put it in my mouth. The bitterness and film coffee leaves on my tongue isn’t worth the bright burst of caffeine. But I drink its heat, its scent, and it’s a beautiful way to start the day.
The people who’ve glimpsed me up here—and not many of the seven hundred thousand in this city ever have—probably think I come for the view. Or they think I’m suicidal, because who else sits buck-ass naked on a ledge with their wriggling toes dangling and their head half-shaved? But I’m not here to ponder the potential resolution of death. I can get that for free. And I’m not here for the view. I’m here for one thing.
The free air above the treetops, between the power lines. Un-laden by buildings, untainted by people.
Between my thighs, I ache. Sore from Mr. Too Big and Too Rough. I enjoy the feeling, and smile, rubbing my toes against each other. The sun warms my skin, and the emptiness all around me chills it. Comforts me.
It is morning, and I’m still free.