I fuck him a lot all the time. Which started out amicably as a pun intended in and out situation, not too much time spent fussing around on the particulars. It was a convenient symptom of 20 something fuckery remedied with weekly booty texts and the 36 pack of Magnum condoms from Rite Aid. And lives now as a memorial to all the other 3 am cocaine and limp dick phone calls that I regularly blow off in lieu of spending time with him instead.
We do the types of things that people everywhere have been doing forever. With the music on and the shades pulled up. The sunshine or the moonlight or the night air or the fever dreams from the day time of all the terrible things we wanted to do to each other by the time we got curled up and naked beneath these sheets. And how many people out there in the world have felt exactly the same we do with my head on his chest and his arms around my neck. How many movies and love songs and short poems with sugar words and paintings about the sensations that in some instances seem so trite but in the moment seem so forever. How long is now. When will this be forever.
As we lie here in silence and I wonder vaguely about some inevitable time in the future when far apart and unpleasurably fucking each other we find ourselves in a similar silence that is filled not by beating hearts and the urgency of youth but by more silence and the resentment implied therein. I wonder what are the things about him I will learn to hate with all my heart. And how will I take those things and use them just to hurt him. How will he do that to me, too. It’s unavoidable, and maybe I expect it too much, according to this mutual penchant for self sabotage we so openly admit to. Although, on the other hand, there’s still that little girl inside me whispering that those things are not so, and that now is forever. Now.
We do not speak of these things, for fear that they will dissipate as soon as we put a name to them. These feelings and this time together. We are the blind leading the blind, holding hands and walking closer into who knows what. Is tomorrow the day that it all comes crumbling down? And if not tomorrow, then the day after that? Or the day after that? Our existence in this world is feeble, and it is not courage with which we endure each other, but a pathetic, codependent inability to open our mouths and say the things that matter. That is the only thing that works for broken souls nowadays, so we make do with what we have.