It was sex again. This time it wasn’t good, it was great. My name didn’t matter and at the time of push, shove and thrust, he was a God. His fingers in my mouth made me move like a puppet, my strings pulled in deeper and deeper into a painful pleasure. There was comfort and caress, hate and remorse all coming together at a single spot of insane inclination. His tongue was my ticket out, his hands on my breasts — my escape. This time I made it to the castle, kicked Jack’s ass, made love to the giant, stole his golden eggs and came right back a rich woman. He whispered how warm it was, how good it felt and I responded with wails and whimpers. He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled my head back until I cried out. He waited till I moaned and then pulled it again. I bit his neck, licked his lips, nibbled on the tips of his fingers until I felt him at his hardest inside me. The harder it got to control the easier it got to let go. He put the gun to my head ten times, pulled the trigger twice; who knew if the gun shot blanks; who cared. Lord knows it wasn’t the best sex I’ll ever have, it couldn’t be. There’s more out there, more for me. But in that moment, it was more than I expected. It was a blending of bodies, a formula of thoughts, a collage of emotions — a really good fuck.
My friends call me M. He is far from any heroic creature I would ever hope to meet; butt naked in high socks and sweating profusely through brush-able chest hairs. I should have gone with a leather couch. Did he think I came? Wasn’t it obvious that I hadn’t finished? He seemed explicitly happy with himself regardless of the win-lose situation we were in. I lost and was still losing with every slow second that he used to light his cigarette and smoke, smug and satisfied. I smiled at the thought of the toxins eating away at his lungs. He smiled back. Disgusting.