Will you look at him, his face discernible through both windows of his car and my kitchen and coming to see me, coming to see me come, coming to come to me. Not handsome and not ugly and not particularly big or small-dicked either, yet right there, beautiful, getting out the driver door. A faint close and the headlights fade, leaving the night tangible for a moment, the summer wisp enshrouding his body for six entire seconds.
Then my house security lights him up again, beaming volatile white on his face. He smiles at the intercom camera, not knowing I’m watching from my little window stool in my oversized tee and the rippable lingerie, head on fists and smiling back.
I open the door to an embrace so tight it hurts.
“Who else could it be?”
We squeeze as if trying to take each other down: the door closes itself and the sensor lights click off again. For a moment, there’s near silence – I close my eyes to nothing but the rustling of clothes in a vulnerable backrub, sharp sips of little kisses on my neck.
Tearing myself from him, we head upstairs, legs frantic in movement; and will you look at him, it’s like he’s chasing me down in one of those pornos that cross the line. We dive into bed, get our pocket fillings and clothes asprawl on the carpet then ourselves asprawl over the sheets.
It’s not been five minutes!
The tumbling and the yanking and the giggling and the creaking and the kissing and the feeling and the fucking.
You know how it goes.
Though he never does rip the lingerie apart, and when he knocks my head on the bedframe he kisses me and apologises. In that violent dark we can’t see each other but we smile and we have fun and we get louder, and cars go by and the world turns round and the night goes on. I dab the sweat off his nose with the edge of a pillow, and we go, and go, and will you look at us – we are primitive. As life gets.
And as our energy surges upward amid our clammy flesh melded together, I have a shrieking orgasm and he climaxes like a head throb, and we fall over and pin each other down and groan and go limp.
We don’t mind the cum and sweat slicking up our bodies. We lay there in a rhythmic pant, faces indiscernible in the dark, thumbing each other’s chins and getting drowsier by the minute. We flit between the fantasy worlds of tonight’s dreams and that wisp in the summer night - outside, the world turns round, cars go by, other people have sex, the night goes on.
And why can’t that be it? Why can’t it be as it could, bodies merging into one like whoever’s gods intended? Why can’t we come and go and come and go, and see each other, and fall asleep in our arms, and feel each other’s faces, swallow each other whole?
Must it have something else?
Perhaps the breaking of a hymen, innocence unwillingly lost. Perhaps sex without love, or a government dystopia, or a commentary on the patriarchy.
Maybe interracial taboo, or snarky jabs at caricature women. Maybe religious connotations. Biological essentialism. Purple prose. The contrast of lust and love.
Incest. Erectile dysfunction. Erectile dysfunction because of incest. Sex and isolation. Underage pregnancy. Subtle aggressiveness. Revenge sex.
Maybe the illegible signature of teetering disaster. Maybe symbolic links between dreary existence and the phantoms of perfect happiness. Maybe confessions of white widowed males.
Perhaps blood and broken skin and nerve-tearing agony.