Pretty Savage Boys

I like to watch.

Girls are my favourite thing: on a small screen in my hand or spread wide on the backdrop of my dad’s immersive home theatre system, I’m not fussy.
Blonde, brunette, redhead, curly, straight, frizzing in the humidity of a hot day. Anything goes. As long as I can click, pause, enlarge, fast-forward, rewind, replay the whole thing over and over again, I’m happy.
Except the latest object of my desire is a real girl. Perfume, the whisper of fabric through my fingers, the soft caress of her hair, the taste of her lips. All one hundred percent real.
She won’t pose for screens. Won’t let me record a single frame. Not even a polaroid to tuck in my wallet.
I like to watch but the girl who occupies my every waking thought likes to be touched.
And the last time I touched a real girl, it didn’t end well.