We open a box of Red Vines and I suck on them-- which you tease me about—even though you know you love to watch. We are sitting in the last row of the theatre. The movie is good but I’m distracted by the way you trace my wrist with your fingers. You slide out of your Puro Sneakers you got in Argentina and begin to play footsie with me in my ballet flats I got at Urban. You reach underneath my Upper Playground hoodie and undue my American Apparel bra and start to stroke my back slowly. My headache from last nights Ratatat show at the Guggenheim starts to fade away. So, I grab hold of your fingers and begin to nibble and suck them as you start to trace your hands up my capezio leggings and tickle my clit. I quietly unbutton your tight black jeans (that are actually mine) and start to stroke you...