“When I first saw you, I knew I had to get my hands on that,” she says, biting her lip, touching my arm, flicking her gaze down my body.
It’s the second date and we just finished the bottle of wine, so I guess it’s time to have sex.
“Thanks!” I never know what to say to people who want to fuck me. I lean in to kiss her a little too quickly, accidentally clicking our teeth.
She climbs in my lap, cups my face, and lowers my head to the floor as we make out. It would be really hot and intense but her hair keeps getting in the way. She sits up for a moment to put her hair in a ponytail, and I feel something hanging on my cheek where she just touched.
It’s in the shape of her hand, thin and papery, and empty inside, like a glove worn by a ghost. It’s her skin. I try to rip it off but can’t.
She pushes up my shirt and starts kissing my chest. She slips her hand under my bra and squeezes my breasts. Her hands slide down my stomach and leave shells behind wherever they linger. Soon my body is littered with hands. It is a graveyard for hands. Each a bit smaller and more transparent than the last, as she sheds layer after layer.
She raises one doll-sized finger to my lips. I turn away, but she slips it in—so I suck. When she removes her finger, I spit out what feels like a miniature condom.
She undoes my belt “Um, you don’t” and pulls down my zipper “you don’t have to” and in one fluid motion, draws my pants and boxers to my ankles.
Gripping the inside of my thighs is a pair of hollowed out hands, soft hair on the knuckles, red polish still on the nails. I recognize them.
“Looks like someone left these here,” she says, and lowers her wrists inside.