Manhandled

You're a deviation from my type. A football player run to fat, you've got 8 inches and 100 pounds on me. You touch me like I might break and you don't much care, carrying me with one arm from the kitchen to my room, throwing me onto the bed from the door.

There's a moment in the air when it feels like I've come unhinged.

My limbs detached, my muscles loose, brain off. The sheer weightless joy of it. The thud. I sink a moment into the mattress before I come back up and together and over. Flipped flat on my back, you pin my shoulders with your knees.