(no subject)
Fuck showering. I’ve been like this three days now, all bed-head and raccoon eyes and the shirt that I stole from my last one night stand, doused in his signature cologne, something with “sexy” in the title or “wildfire,” like who the fuck remembers or who cares. It reminded me of my dad, which almost make for awkward fucking, but I was too drunk to really think about it. After the normal proceedings, the normal reactions: exchange numbers, kiss cheeks, promise to meet again soon. Check, check, and check. Out the door and I saved his number under “9.”
Can’t even call this fun anymore, or seductive; its standard procedure, not even worth the emotion to be upset over.
In his shirt, on my floor, and I’m tasting blood like I fell too fast or too far from the top of the bed or maybe swallowed a grenade or should have or will soon or maybe after I get laid again next. It doesn’t constitute as being a whore if it’s for science. I haven’t orgasmed since I lost my virginity, but that doesn’t stop me; doesn’t stop me from watching the muscles in your back contract and pull tight again, to the shape of our bodies and the fervor of grasping and breathing and scratching and biting and basic trying-to-pull-each-other-apart because we are all so full of shit. I say: “dear God you were amazing” before I realize it’s come through my teeth, if that is any leading indication of how much I mean this. Truth is, you don’t fuck people you don’t like more than once.
I’ll say, “Okay, I’m done. I won’t fuck anyone” and say this twice as I’m crawling into bed and as he’s kissing my neck and all inhabitations have lost sway and I’ve given in again. And I’ve given in again simply because there are few things as black and white in this world such as this; mouths can lie, and dicks can lie, but muscles can’t and raw wanting is hard to disguise and awkward morning afters are impossible to fake.
Trying to pull each other apart because we are all so full of shit, and in the back of my mind I’m thinking, well maybe he won’t get dressed immediately after and that, at least, gives way to a little sustained pseudo-intimacy. When you don’t, you’ll roll over and sleep, and I’ll crawl back out of bed to pull a shirt over my head and find out it’s yours and tomorrow you won’t ask for it back.
Three days later and not showering and still feeling pummeled like I’d spent the last week swallowing grenades and you won’t call and I’m not surprised and I don’t even try to say now “I won’t fuck anyone anymore.” I just lay here and think about the arch of your back and the scent of your shirt and try to impose intimacy on something that never had it to begin with.
Realists do not make love. Realists fuck.