Maybe it was from my still-throbbing leg. I planted my lips on him and let out a low growl. He pulled me closer, forcing my legs to spread on his lap. I winced and prepared myself for the inevitable line that he and many other white boys feel the need to deliver to me. If you could see past my natural tan, I was blushing. He stopped kissing me and ran his bejeweled fingers through my hair and then clasped them around the back of my neck. I wanted to hustle things along to the bed (or at least horizontally), so there was no chance of me straining my leg again. It was verbal foreplay for the digital age. Then his hands were under my shirt and mine were working on his belt buckle. We continued to make out and the pain subsided (as long as I didn’t move my leg anymore). White, bearded, man-bunned, pierced, tattooed, and looking up at me with a big smile.
Long story short: Grindr, L train, his couch ― all in less than half an hour. There I was on the a lap of a pretty hipster, our jeans rubbing away what little blue they had, and I was in pain!īut I grinned and bore it, making my grunts of discomfort sound like enthusiasm for our intended purpose.
