Friday, May 20, 2005

These Kinds of Things

If you want sex blogs there are plenty out there, a whole weird subgroup of bloggers actually.

This isn’t one of them.

You want the back story? Someone contacted me tonight; it’s a thing he occasionally feels like doing. It upset me. I don’t cry any more but I do start to shake, shivering uncontrollably even though it isn’t cold. And I want to create for you, make something out of words: an antidote to a world full of morons. But all I can do it hold a black pen in my hand and slowly write “fuck” on college ruled notebook paper over and over again until I can steady my hand.

This isn’t supposed to be pornographic, this is supposed to be beautiful. My intentions are not to titillate, to be crass, but to move you. When you’re done reading this, promise me you won’t feel like fucking mindlessly, but that you will feel like loving, passionately. Truthfully.

Do you promise? Good.

It’s dark and they are walking on the sidewalk in the middle of his quiet little suburbia. He’s holding an empty 2 liter plastic cup that says 7 Eleven on it. She is a little bit tipsy, her one-drink-rule foiled by a shot of Bacardi 151 mixed in with beer. Foul? Yes. Effective against one-drink-rules? Absolutely.

The alcohol blurs her vision but makes her acutely aware of smell and touch; she giggles easily, her voice soft and rising up at the end of her sentences like it always does when she’s half way between stone cold sober and shitfaced.

Why am I telling you this? Because he stops and tells her to hold the cup. And she wonders why until he pulls her to him and kisses her, warmly, wetly. Unexpectedly.

And why am I telling you this? Because it’s that kind of kiss that starts these kinds of things off well.

These kinds of things that aren’t mindless fucking, one night stands.

Yes, these kinds of things are her on her hands and knees being fucked from behind. Yes, it’s not face-to-face but she knows he’s there because it feels different then in any other position. It’s not boring old guy on top, it’s not slow easy side by side. It’s fucking, and it’s intense. Instead of a general feeling of fullness, she distinctly feels the tip of his dick pushing against her vaginal walls. She knows he’s there because he’s got his hands on her hips and he’s guiding her. These are the important things for these kinds of things.

And afterwards I want to lay in his arms and let him pet me, so what if he calls me a cat. I want him to talk, I want to talk. If I succumb to the fear of the common ideas that tell us that boys want to fall asleep after fucking and girls want to cuddle and talk then it’s not right, it’s not one of these things.

These are the kinds of things that make up for all the fucking morons.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

You ever have one of those days when you just don't give a fuck.
When you want to go out destroy somthing.
When you want to destroy yourself.

It's one of those days.