Your Contacts, My Thumb
Your phone is open on my knee, sweetheart, and I'm not reading your messages — those are boring. I'm reading your contacts. The one you write to more than anyone. The one who answers you inside a minute. The one who calls you by your surname. The one whose photo you keep. I'm going to say what each of them would think of what you sound like right now, and you're going to jerk off while I do it, because that's how you buy the next minute. Stop stroking and my thumb moves toward the top of that list. Keep going and nothing happens tonight. Nothing happens tonight, sweetheart. I said nothing happens tonight — I didn't say anything about tomorrow.
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