We fucked so hard we knocked his nightstand over

I used to sleep with a trans man. The first time we fucked we were both drunk, my tank top falling off my shoulder as he traced the fabric with his hands, pulling it further down, his cold, delicate fingers, trailing me. His bed was twin-sized, and when he rolled me on top of him we fell off together, taking his nightstand with us, magazines falling around us and his lamp’s light clicking off, the darkness swallowing the marks of his teeth across my collarbones. When we sat up we laughed so hard our stomachs ached, we laughed so hard we woke everyone up; I hadn’t laughed that hard in years. His nightstand laid beside us, vibrators and action figures littered across his floor, but we didn’t move to pick them up. Instead, he held my face between his hands, steadying me, everything tilting sideways except his eyes. “Are you okay?” he whispered, his smile turning serious for a moment, and his eyes were so blue then, so clear, and I remember looking into them and feeling sober, I remember looking into them and feeling my chest ache. “I’m okay,” I whispered back, and I meant it, despite my scraped palms and my bruised shin, and we fucked even harder after that, our elbows and knees scraping against the carpet as we laughed into each other’s mouths and gasped for air. I kissed the stubble along his jaw and slid my hands down to his clit and he tangled his fingers in my hair and left marks along my neck. I felt his small hands grasp mine as I kissed his chest hair and I let his lips trail my body, soft on their way down. We fucked for hours until our sweat-slicked bodies gave out, until the carpet had rubbed our skin raw, until we climbed back into his bed and pressed against each other. His nightstand on the floor beside us, broken and empty and forgotten.

I once got fucked so hard I fell into a nightstand, I once got fucked so hard that for a moment I think I fell in love.