by Chloe Simonne
(01/06/10)
I borrow him while you're away. While you're giving a lecture on art history in Washington, D.C, while you're visiting your parents for your birthday in Pennsylvania. On a bi-weekly basis, I walk down East Eleventh Street, your street, but until the morning, I pretend it is mine. I pretend he is mine. I get wet while walking, from the adrenaline of New York and from the anticipation of knowing how well he will fuck me. Your boyfriend fucks me the way I've always wanted to be fucked in my wildest dreams.
I'll ring your doorbell, number thirteen, and he'll buzz me in. I borrow your stairs as I run up them. I borrow his mouth as he kisses me with fire, and I borrow his hands as they slide up and down my torso with desire.
I'll borrow one of your glasses for the rum on ice that we drink. Maybe you even washed the glass, maybe you purchased the glass. Maybe it's your favorite glass. I'll borrow your toilet while I pee and I'll use some of your "Yes to Carrots" lotion on my hands. I'll run your hairbrush through my hair.
Then I borrow your side of the bed -- sheets, blankets and pillows for sex, and later for sleep. I borrow his arms to feel safe and loved in. I borrow his brain for stimulating conversation, and I borrow terms of endearment from him that he probably also says to you. I borrow a sliver of your life.
In the morning if I am feeling bold, I borrow a spritz of your Clinique Happy perfume. Before I leave and give you back your apartment, I take a last glance to make sure I've left no trace of myself -- no earrings, no journal, no litter. And I leave the same way I entered. In lust.
