Blurred photoI might be drunk. Or high. Or drunk and high. I am, in fact, both. Absolutely. Fuck it. I am.

I had to fuck her today. We were napping but I couldn’t stay asleep and I nearly came in my pants waiting next to her, wanting to touch her ass.

I lay there wanting a lot of things for a long time. Very specific ideas ran through my head. Wanting to hold her down. Grip her arm. Force her face into the mattress. Squeeze her wrist and hold it against her back. “Hi, lover,” I wanted to say, having never called her lover before. “Be good,” I wanted to say, “Stay still.”

I needed her to forget about everything else going on around us. I thought about shoving a pill into her mouth and rubbing her throat like a cat. “Swallow what I tell you to swallow,” I wanted to say, “and don’t ask questions.”

I wanted my dick to fill her.

When she rides me and my dick is jammed deep inside her pussy, filling her completely. Deep, so deep. When her pussy is hot and raw. Tight. Wet. When she grips me and comes so hard I have to hold her tight to keep her on me. That is the truest I am with her. I am not certain she would say the same.

I can’t wake her up and fuck her. I like to be jostled awake with someone pulling at me, needing it, but she would be furious. I wait. I get out of bed and do quiet chores. Fold the clothes. Sweep.

An hour or more later, I finally hear her stir. I fill with rage. She napped for hours and I need to make up for last time.

I don’t imagine it’s me fucking her, but someone else. I tap into a thick vein of jealousy. I want a vengeful energy. I tell the jealousy to abduct me. Make me ragged.

She’s on her knees. I see her take his thick cock, not mine, inside her mouth. He’s the one with his hand on her forehead pushing her, tilting her face up so he can see her better. I watch him pull out of her mouth and rub his dick on her face. She moves to take him back into her mouth. He teases her tongue. When he’s ready, he grabs her head again and pulls. He fucks her mouth slowly and I watch saliva drip down her chin.

I’m not the one in her mouth. She’s curving her back to take him deeper down her throat. I hate them both. I can’t look away.

I want him to move behind her and grab her neck. He does whatever I want. I think it and he’s there. He grabs her neck with one hand and and wraps his fingers around his cock with the other. I watch him jerk off behind her head. He strokes himself, twisting his hand and squeezing his cock. He keeps one hand on her neck and pulls her chin high so she’s forced to lean against his thigh to keep her balance.

My insecurity blooms like mold.

I want to see her legs in the air for him. He lifts her off her knees and pushes her onto the bed. I watch him push open her thighs, shove himself inside her, and pull at her hips hard enough to lift her off the bed while he fucks her. I’m not the one slapping her. I’m not the one bending over and spitting my words at her. Telling her I need her to take it longer than she’s going to want to, longer than will feel good.

I watch him hold her shoulders down, pushing her into the mattress. I’m angry with him and horrified by how much she likes it. “You disgust me,” he snaps at her and hides her face under his hand, “How many cocks do you want inside you today?” He turns her head so it faces away from him, keeping his hand on her head, hiding her eyes from him. “Do you want a line out the door? Could you taste the difference of each new cock in your mouth? Would you know if someone comes back for more?”

They’re making me sick. I’m sick watching them. My stomach is easily turned. I taste bile creep its way up the back of my throat. “I’m done with you,” I say as he pulls his dick out of her.

I grab the vibrator from a box near the bed and throw it at her. I mumble, “Get yourself off,” but I’m already heading to the bathroom.

I strip everything off. I’m soaked. I run the water until there’s steam and step into the shower. In the stream of water, I hear her from the next room. She’s yelling out as she comes. I hear her one more time. “Keep going,” I think, but I can’t be sure if she comes again or not.

When I turn the water off, I hold my arms up and watch the steam before I head back to the bed, still wet from the shower and crawl under the covers. I lay underneath her and open my mouth. Her tits scrape across my teeth. My useless tongue, my teeth, my lips. Open and thick, waiting for the pendulum stroke of her nipple across my face. Her tits get more and more wet from my open mouth as she drags them back and forth over my face.

I tell her what I want.




Start with the top of my head. Your fingertips in my hair. Twist tiny circles. Tug and pull and tease my scalp. Work slowly. I want time to stretch to an impossible slowness before you’re at my ears.

Suck all the minutes from the room for me. A bell jar over us. Preserved. Don’t let me feel your lips until they’ve hovered near my cheek so long I’ve forgotten. I can’t be allowed to rush. I want my whole being stiff with desire. Forgetting when this started. Forgetting there was a start. Forgetting you or me. There is nothing but the feel of your fingers slipping from my rib cage back under my arm.

Leave my clothes on and feel me under the cotton, the buttons. Slip your hand under my belt just enough to feel me, soft underneath. Take off my shoes but leave my socks to buffer the feeling of one nail across the sole of a foot. Stop. Let me take it in for a long moment.

Pause. Take a deep breath. Let’s both do that. Now.

If you’re whispering, it’s so subtle and soft, I can’t tell. I’m experiencing sound as air. Too heightened to hear words. Find your way under my clothes. Rolling my socks like a snake charmer slowly down my calves.

Undo, unbutton, pull, lift. Pin me down. I want to feel the full stretch of your palms, fingers spread. This is about my body right now and I won’t pretend it’s not.

I know I need you on top of me. I can say it. I want to feel the rough edge of your worn out slip slide tight and quick over my clit when you shift your thighs wider around my hips to squeeze me. I want your hands in my hair, then pulling on my ears, soon slipping down my neck.

Feel my chest. Pinch and rub my nipples between your thumb and finger. The way you’re touching me reminds me of seeing you struggle with a dead lighter, rubbing your thumb harder and harder against the rough, metal wheel.

I need everything slow. There are no deadlines or even times of the day. Everything is lost and I never want to find it. Push my shoulders against the back of the couch and curl yourself over my thigh. I’ll pet your shoulders while you give me head. Both my hands are in your hair when I come. You rest inside my spread thighs.

Nothing changes. We’re still in motion. Keep going, baby. Stop everything around us, but don’t stop this.


If I fast, it is only because I am beyond reason by someone or something. I’m too interested in excess. Food, drink, sex, thought. I can eat myself sick, drink myself under a table, fuck myself sore, and think myself into a corner. I do not ‘eat clean’. I am stupid and distracted. Easily duped. Too true a believer of love. Or that feeling that hits right before love. The pull towards it. The draw.

I follow the mildest touch. The slightest brush of fingers on my forearm. She points to the delicate strokes of ink. She says, “swallow” with her tongue thick in her mouth. I can taste her lisp. It sticks in my throat when I try to keep up my end of the bargain.

We sit on a bench in the shittiest and only park we passed. I talk her down from the dream she must have had before she met me and keep her from the certainty of wherever she was going and what it would mean. She is going to be with me today.

The park was entirely wrong. Birds without feet somehow moving lightly through filth. It didn’t take much on either side to wind up somewhere on a couch. Her hand on my thigh. My mouth on her neck. Pushing her head against me. Our thick breaths.

My hand takes hers and moves it up and down. I let go to take it in and feel her stroke. My thighs grip. I hold my mouth on her neck. I hold her tight, not wanting to feel anything except her hand. The movement. Losing track. Forgetting who she is.

I don’t know what to give her. I just want this. Her fingers curved and pulling against my pants. I grip her wrist but let her lead. Feeling her feel me. The air gets hard. I’m going to come. Here. On the couch. In my clothes. And I don’t want her to know.

Later, I have touched her and her hair is wet and matted against her neck. I leave my fingers inside her and rest my head on her hip.

She has the smell of a stranger. And sandalwood. I close my eyes and see a factory. I’m in India again with sandalwood sawdust stirred up by box fans. Big and small Ganeshas pile up all around.

I don’t want her to know about India. About the factory. About the boys outside with envelopes of postcards.

But she’s there with me. I can feel my fingers inside her.

Walking back home, I take the long way, the opposite route. I’m distracted again. Thinking about how I want to feel that touch. Someone’s hand on my thigh, creeping up. Maybe with my belt undone next time. Maybe she’s on her knees next to me on the couch. Bent over just a little. And I can stare.



I blamed you for everything. My bad mood. My limp dick. My disappointment in the food, the scene, the view. My anger landed on your face. Again and again. I looked away. Over your shoulder. Over my shoulder. Down at my lap.

You did the same. Kept my head swiveling on my shoulders. I tried to keep up with your moods. Your anger. Your disappointment. Disillusionment. Despair. You were my first disaster. Cordoned off. Explosives set. Wired to go at any moment. My muscles too tight. A desperate boxer struggling to stay on my feet. No longer loose. Lost. Waiting for the punch that will drop me to my knees. My limbs, bricks, everything implodes. Leveled.

This started before either of us can remember. This started before we met. Between being a child and being grown, it takes seed. The dirty break up. The shameful mistakes. The root. The route.

Blame me. I’m ready to take it. That long fall. Such form. Such grace.

I took you into Forever 21. You tried on gold lamé and burgundy fake fur and pushed my fingers inside you in the dressing room. I turned your face against the mirror. Everything was fun until it soured.

The park bench in the cold with the broken slat that ripped through your stockings and into your knee. We laughed about the blood. I left my cock sticking out of my pants when we ran to the car.

Your friends couch. Realizing too late, with the keys slipped through the mailslot, that the dirty condom wasn’t in my pocket. Not knowing where we’d left it or when it would surface.

You liked to suck me off when I was late getting to work or meeting someone. I had to run out the door confused and dizzy from getting off.

I never thought we would last. I never thought I loved you. It never occurred to me what you wanted. I don’t think you cared much either way. You always seemed ready to walk out the door and never see me again. You never left anything important behind. Nothing I would have to return.

I don’t remember anything about the last time. The end wasn’t anything that stuck with me. It was the heady beginning and the slow burn that comes back to me. I still jerk off remembering the way you looked when you slipped out of your skirt. I can feel your tongue in my ear. The way I loved that and hated it at the same time.

I don’t miss you as much as I miss who I was to you then. The role I played. When you were gone, you were long gone. I can’t imagine you ever looked back. I thought you were my toy but I know better now. You knew all along. You had the map. You saw where we were headed and how little I knew. You were watching as I disappeared from the start.

If I saw you now, my hands would be on my belt before I recognized your face. The thin, pink scar on the back of my hand would blush red. I’d stand right there and wait.