I’m tired of pretending like sex is not an itch I have to scratch, if the fact that I have to make a conscious decision everyday not to find a release (akin to being lazy in bed and not wanting to brush your teeth) makes me a sex addict, I’ll let it be.
Why must an animal explain why it does what it does if it has perishable beauty and walks on four inches of blasphemy with sultry eyes? I sat tables from your forward smirks, split a pill and not long after I fell in the still hole, compromised. Hundreds of moons later I see you immortalized and feel that shhhhh between my thighs.
Did I have to be pulled in an alleyway by my thong, tasting bloody dirt gravel screams while the sticky lip licking demons went on and on? The needles, rats, scraps and hot breaths the kindest friends to distract me? Are these tight knuckled keys in my hand the confession you need to excuse my sexuality?
What about when he’s on top of me and I’m saying no but his fingers can tell just how wet a good girl goes? Protests are no match for an ass in your face. I even beamed the next day after you’d negotiated step by step the takeaway, under the illusion that the cosmos had slapped this DivineDick my way! It took some beats before I realized what you had done to get to this place where you had won.
And what is intimacy anyway? But bits and pieces getting picked away, placing all my bets on us but then watch you walk away. Te amo pa siempre left me breathless in a shower questioning reality, sanity, dignity. Did you ever mean anything? You and some of you… shit, most of you. No thank you. Now she’s better at playing all of you.