Blue

You remember how I asked you not to be moved to fuck mindlessly but instead to love truthfully?

Of course you remember. But did you? Do you?

So if not that, if not truthfully, at the very least fuck memorably.

I know it’s hard, the act of copulation is not a pretty one, but paint me a picture. Make it beautiful, aesthetically lovely even if not so in spirit. And all the better if in spirit as well.

He kissed her neck and cupped her back as he entered from underneath, things slip in easier that way. She straddled him, sitting on top and looking down on him, supine underneath her. The only light in the room: dozens of blue Christmas lights twinkling on the wall.

She brushes the hair out of her eyes and watches his face as they fuck. She prefers to watch. It used to be a kind of perverse fascination, like watching porn for the intimate details of people fucking and not for the fucking itself. Only better, because you are part of the intimate detail.

Now the watching has become an intimate detail in itself. It’s the vicarious enjoyment of her partner slipping into his lonely ecstasy. The pleasure of voyeurism onto the highly private place he goes, she goes, many go, on the steady progression to orgasm.

His head is sunk into a giant pillow and his eyes are closed. Dark slits of eyelashes in a pale face, lit by the blue light that brings out the freckles on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His expression is one of supreme concentration.

The blue light, how it gives a strange tint to everything in the room and brings out his freckles, that is what is important.

That’s what made it memorable, an image that will remain with her for a long time.
She doesn’t remember the crises, when it comes. She just remembers that it was bathed in that blue light.