A man, usually is made of many layers of his consciousness. A woman, layers of mystery.
And me? Layers of people I've picked up as I tread along.
We met at the bar, Mr. S and me. I've let my eyes do the talking ever since.
Two hours up, and I'm at his apartment. We're trying hard.
They say sex exposes your innermost self. Yes, I've known more about Mr. S in the eleven minutes than the two hours at the bar.
Thinking about whether he'd know me?
I just get better at being mysterious every time I'm naked. Layered, as I like to call it.
But what's life without a rain check.
So, I ask him as I pull my stuff together, planning to leave the apartment;
"Hey Mr. S, have you ever fucked a serial killer before?"