He wants to fuck me, wants to rub his hands over my collarbones to trickle over my ribs and swirl over my stomach. He wants his lips on my skin and my lips against the stubble on his neck, fingernails clenched into his back, primitively marking him mine.
There's attraction between us; the kind of heat people across the room can tan in. We converse, touch, laugh, run hands through our hair and sigh loudly whenever we are forced to break eye contact. We talk of life, love, sex and chaos theory, the dance of the planets according to physics, particle accelerators, the decline in ethics in teenagers, black and white photography, classic rock, web comics, haikus, Star Wars, siblings, behavioral quirks, masochism, poetry, pain, fear, the great outdoors, psychology… We touch on every subject over the course of a four hour discussion. There is much in common between us; I have finally found someone both stranger than me in ways I enjoy and intelligent.
But the night ends with my palm print firmly across his face when he drags me into a darkened room and goes for my belt.
He just didn't understand: it was his mind I wanted to fuck.