2005-02-19 @ 8:02 p.m.

And he would just pound, pound, pound, like a heartbeat, the irregular kind, splitting me in two, into the mattress, the floor, the kitchen table, the counter top, the back seat of his car, and the small chair in the back row of the movie theatre (but that was just once).

And on a rare occassion, he would stop to kiss me, not all romantic like in the movies, but rough and horrible, leaving spit in my mouth that isn't my own, and when he does he looks to see my reaction, and I pretend to like it, like I do him.

But I do him. And why? Sex, sex is why. Sex is the reason. Sex is it. Sex is us. Sex is speaking and listening in our relationship. Sex is laughing and crying and smiling and screaming and breathing and living and cheating death.

Yeah, I fucking do him. Sex is sex no matter what, right?

And on a rare occassion, I'll say no.

<<before - after>>

The Weather Underground - 2008-11-12
- - 2008-05-06
She knows I can read. - 2008-05-06
William Jacobson - 2008-05-02
Lost Boys - 2008-04-30

everything © Claudia (2003-2008)