I sit with my legs splayed out across the pavement of my childhood neighborhood, wet asphalt sticking to my limbs; it has just been renovated, and I love nothing more than a sticky asphalt leg mask in the summer.
I cast my eyes downward as a car approaches. I hate strangers. I’m woefully shy, a trait that only makes me even more captivating and elusive to potential suitors.
Little do I know that the car holds the suitor of my dreams.
“Hey,” a perfectly British voice says.
I freeze, asphalt clinging to every pore of my legs. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
It is Harry. Surname: Styles.
I perform the act of a late reaction, trying to play it cool.
“Harry? But I thought you were quarantining in London?” I say, my eyes meeting his for the briefest but most sexually charged of seconds. I turn away. I look back. I turn away. I look up at the sky. I turn away. I look back. Our eyes lock. I bite my lip until it’s literally pouring blood over the pavement. I don’t care–I know what gets Mr. Styles excited.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers. His previously lazy grip upon the steering wheel of his car (which is an eco-friendly Maserati with boat capabilities) turns tense. “You know what that does to me. And you know I’m powerless to resist.”
“Do what?” I say like a toddler, my words barely recognizable as English. I stick a few fingers into my mouth, followed by a whole fist, and then both feet. “This?” I gargle through my mouthful of fingers and toes.
Harry visibly sweats. A palpably erotic energy permeates the very air we breathe. He breathes it in, savoring the taste.
“Watermelon Sugar, high!” he screams, no longer able to contain himself.
He unbuckles himself (his seat buckle- don’t be gross!) and launches out of the car like a firework on Guy Fawkes Day.
He now stands before me in all of his British Invasion glory. I can only gasp as I watch the tendrils of golden hour sunlight play across his features: that devilishly boyish face; that perfectly coiffed head of hair; those disgustingly beautiful, sea-green, hot spring pools he dares call eyes. He wears a pastel shirt emblazoned with the words, “Over it,” in thrilling Comic Sans.
It’s ironic, because in this moment, I realize I’m not over him.
“I can’t get you out of my head,” Harry whispers, channeling the pure eroticism and intimacy of an ASMR track.
I shake my head. “What happened was a mistake. You know what they say: what happens backstage in Tampa, stays backstage in Tampa.”
His sea-green eyes, so blue, yet so green, and even more ambiguous in color than ever before, as if the blues and greens are fighting a war on both land and sea over who will prevail, pierce me like a sword of sexual energy (but not THAT kind of sword- get your mind out of the sex sewer, perv!).
“But I don’t want it to stay backstage in Tampa,” Harry whispers, even more quietly and at a pitch barely audible to the human ear.
I scoff. I chortle. I scoff again, chortling all the while. “Prove it.”
Wordlessly, he unbuttons his shirt. My eyes bulge and I hastily wave my arms around, flailing like an inflatable car dealership mascot in an effort to stop him.
“Harry, we’re in public!” I whisper-scream through clenched teeth. I turn to see my neighbor, Nearly Dead Debra, watering her azaleas. She smiles and waves, a tooth falling out of her mouth in the process. I wave back, hoping she looks away before things become decidedly adult. I don’t want her potentially last glimpse of Earth to be an ex-boyband member having his way with my all too willing body.
Harry undoes his last button and bares his chest to me. My mouth falls open (not for THAT- keep reading before making assumptions, sex offender!).
Underneath his signature butterfly now resides a new tattoo: the words, “But I don’t want it to stay backstage in Tampa.”
Despite myself, tears well and then squirt from my eyes with the full force, range, and choreography of a timed sprinkler. They drench Harry, who dances in the tear-rain like he’s in his own “Lights Up” music video.
My tear sprinklers finish their rounds. I release a pent-up breath and smile up at a glistening Harry.
“You’re really serious,” I say, my eyes really biting, chewing, swallowing, and digesting each word that makes up the sentence, “But I don’t want it to stay backstage in Tampa,” on his chest.
He winks with both his eyes and voice as he replies, “There’s more.”
He, I shit you not, gets down on one fucking knee. The gall. The audacity. I slightly and gently orgasm on the spot, both physically and emotionally. He pulls out a diamond the size my fist, which I ascertain because I quickly put it in my mouth to assess the size.
“Will you marry me and make me the happiest X-Factor success story in the world?” he says, looking up at me with those indecisively sea-green orbs called eyes, which again, are somehow both the world’s purest emerald and the globe’s most pristine ocean blue at the exact same time.
“Yes! A million times yes!” I scream, shattering windows throughout the neighborhood. I don’t care about the collateral damage or the fees that I will have to pay. I’m marrying Harry Styles!
I throw that ring onto my finger as if my life depends on it. As soon as I do, Harry begins crying fully, his eye sprinklers now doing the rounds. I too dance in his tear-rain, basking in my love’s liquids (but not THOSE kinds of liquids- seriously, go to church and confess for those thoughts, sinner!).
I stop dancing and look him dead in the eyes, nearly drowning, because again, they’re not so much eyes as pools–and I’m lost at sea, doggy paddling back to shore, unsure if I want to save myself or majestically drown. “Let’s make love, right here, right now.”
He hesitates. “But Nearly Dead Debra is right there.”
“Fuck Debra,” I say, and I mean it.
I don’t need to tell Harry twice. He pounces on me like a feral goat, his hands less like hands than hooves.
“Be gentle. It’s my first time,” I whisper.
“No, it’s not?” he says, his words infused with a sexual but confused energy.
“Haha, oh, true,” I breathe back.
We butterfly kiss as foreplay. And things spiral from there (I’m not going to describe my sexual history, sicko! Go read Fifty Shades if you’re looking to get off!).