“I’m feeling self-conscious,” he whispered to us as his cheeks flushed to a brilliant pink. I gaped at him while Macey, our photographer, snapped his photo. He blushed, flexing his biceps and waving his perfect hand in front of his perfect, beautiful face. I bit my lip, hard.
What made this man so innately attractive...was it his accent? His shyness despite his divine hotness? My ovaries burned with longing as I snapped some photos and pretended to be helpful.
From this close, I could see the beads of sweat drip down his rippling abs, slowly trickling down to a place my eyes weren’t allowed but so desperately wanted to be. I wanted to lick his sweat, be his sweat, dancing down his abs like a butterfly in the wind. He looked at me — just for a second — holding my gaze as my gum fell out of my mouth. And, my god, he smiled.
“Got it!” Macey chimed, breaking our visual union. “Thank you,” he cooed, before jogging off — the sun reflecting off his golden skin, his man bun bouncing with every step.
“His name! We need his name!” Macey realized.
This was my chance. My moment.
I ran after him. “Hey!” I yelled. He gave me a look of concerned confusion as he glided gracefully to a halt, while I almost skidded right into him. My eyes, level with his collar bones, soaked in as much of him as they could. I saw the delicate vein in his neck, jumping with each pulse of his heartbeat. I inhaled. He smelled like good shampoo and sex. “What’s your name?” I gasped.
“Jai,” he whispered, his face so close to mine I could have kissed him.
I exhaled, my brow and...elsewhere suddenly damp, and realized that in that moment, Coachella was worth it
Yours in thirst,
Claire (@foryourclairification)
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