Is sex really all there is?
I woke up this morning with the sense of a man all around. The memory of the look in his eyes the first time he put his fingers inside me. A hunger, a mischief, a delight. The official beginning of our physical connection.
And I remembered the way he kissed me, and the way he fucked me, and the way he came like it hurt sometimes. And I remembered Christmas night when we were both so drunk and we were just going at it and giving each other everything we could, all messy like.
And I remembered evenings on his sofa, when I cuddled against him and told him that I never want to call him but my neighbor told me I should just do it if I’m thinking of him so much. And the way he looked down at me and smirked, with pleasure and pride (or was it amusement and ridicule?) as he asked, “So you’re talking to your friends about me?”
And in the flood of the past I felt his fingers again and I flung myself up right in my bed. This has to stop.
This has stopped. We set a fire to the fire’s fire. It was double arson. Love murder suicide.
It’s done now. We killed it. We both trashed and tarnished the thing. Now I have to remember the things he said, and what he did. I have to remember the consequences of my own foolishness and fuckery, and the fear that drove us both straight here. I have to hold onto that. I have to believe that.
Because anything else is madness.
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