Control Be Damned

It begins in your hotel room. I don’t know why I have this fondness for them. I suspect it’s because they’re cut off from both our worlds and the familiarity that floods our senses every day. I like it because in my head, it becomes an island of our own. A clean slate where we can write just our memories without anyone else forcing their way into them. It’s a setting that ties our fantasies together. That much I know. But you won’t tell me anything else about any of yours. You keep the details to yourself. You ask me to wait. Have a little patience, you say. I say it’s something I lack. And you say it’s something you wish I’d embrace. So I’ll wrap my arms around it and hold on to it. Just because you asked me to. But I’ll still tell you one of mine. Today. Here.

We’re in your hotel room, on your bed. I’m taking your picture with my new phone. And you smile your dimpled smile. Your eyes twinkle and I see desire breaking free from your mind and flash across them. Just a flicker that you’ve always been so quick to hide. You immediately look down, pretending to straighten a fold in the bed sheets. And I smile, looking at your insistent need to control everything. From the moment I walked into your room, we’ve talked about all things banal and mundane, carefully skirting around our want for each other. Like two fighters in a ring, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

I look away, subtly giving you the time you need to regain your composure. I busy myself in trying to find a place to put my phone down. I look back and see you looking at me. Composure has been politely asked to fuck off and in its place, I see unbridled desire. Your lips are slightly parted and your breathing is deep and even. You gaze fixes me in my place, knotting my stomach, making me clench. The look in your eyes and your obvious effort to not do anything are like two opposing forces. The air thickens with what we both don’t say, rendering the lightness of the moment seconds ago irrelevant.

I don’t move. Instead, I wait for you to come to me. I remember. You said, when you come at me, I pull away. But when you let me come to you, I don’t resist. I remember. And I wait. And you come to me like you said you would. You hold my eyes when you move in closer, slowly breaching my space and letting me into yours. When we’re inches apart, you raise your hand to my cheek. I close my eyes and feel your fingers caressing my skin. I move in closer till I can feel the warmth of your body and smell your perfume. I breathe in, familiarising myself. I raise one hand to your neck and pull on your shirt with the other. I bring my face close to yours. You meet me halfway. And we kiss. Slowly and deeply. At some point, I find myself on my back and you on top of me. I let you take control. Not because I win by letting you win. It’s because I want you to take control.


There. This is my fantasy. And I’m waiting to hear yours. But I have a feeling we’ll end up living it. And that’s when you’ll tell me, with a smile on your face. That you made me wait because you preferred showing me.

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Lady Jughead lives and writes in the city she loves and hates, Bombay. Without meaning to and harbouring mixed feelings about it (You’ll see the irony in just a bit), she’s forever wandering in the murkiness that exists between straight and gay, clear and clueless, butch and femme, cute and hot, and genius and insane. All of which leave her with a question that often occupies a significant portion of her cognitive capacity – is she Just Perfect or is she falling fast into the deep chasm of obscurity called Just Average?
Lady Jughead

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