dressing up

i bet those jeans make your ass look great, she says.

i want you to look at me, the curve of my hips, my breasts, my ass, the slope of my shoulders, the angle of my hand on my hip as i pause, stop and turn to look back at you.
this is a signal i want you to fuck me, let me slowly lower myself down into your lap as you remove my sweater from my shoulders, slide your hands under my shirt and bra, if i happen to be wearing one, and kiss me.
at the same time this is not about you as i allow myself to move within the dark spaces of the night, warm with the petals of imagination and fantasy. you could be anyone, the man across the bar, the boy driving a pickup truck too large for him, a faceless man i have no desire for and cannot conceive developing any. what matters is that there is the possibility that you're watching me. that you cannot help it.
so i'll start moving.
because this is different than before, fresher than the first time i wanted your gaze on me, your lips on mine and was drowning in the fear of it. so i did the only thing i could think to express it. i made the shirt tighter, the neckline lower, the jeans curvier and wore no bra, just a shelf tank underneath in a means to offset the standard of beauty i was attempting to become. i wanted you to think i was beautiful, and if that didn't work i wanted you to think i was hot enough for you to mess around with. fuckable. even though i couldn't bring myself to say those words.
and when i showed up at college i couldn't find you. a quick search revealed that you were skipping class and the irony was so much i almost started laughing. that was the first and last time i dressed solely for you.
now when you look, it's not because i've done it for you. i've done it for me. and because i'm so fucking hot you just can't help but look.