I refrain from talking about sex. Before anyone calls shenanigans, let me clarify. It comes up in stories, sometimes even in the form of explicit details. But the act of sex (penis in vagina sex) as subject, I rarely talk about that. I have a reason, I don’t think I can do it justice unless I am fucking and writing at the same time.
In hindsight, any words I may use to describe it feel like euphemisms, metaphors and failed attempts to beautify an ineffable act of massively degenerate proportions. This morning, however, I woke up with this need to talk about sex.
As it is.
Not as the coming together of two souls. Not the seamless dance of two bodies in apparent agony. When I am lying there short of breath and my legs spread as far as they’d go; I am not the verbose, articulate woman I am now.
He is cock. I am cunt.
Only cunt can sing the songs I cannot.
Only she can explain the pain. That specific brand of ache that anyone who has taken a cock can relate to. The pain that has the power to turn anyone into a masochist. We share that pain; knowledge of it binds us all together. Each thrust, coming forth with a decided beat.
Pain. Stretch. Pain. Pleasure. Repeat.
Designed to make me want another. And another. And then another.
Only she can talk about the longing. Longing is such a beautiful word but this longing is no beautiful thing. It’s almost ironic that I should use the word to describe it. It’s desperate and shameless in its quest to consume. It is needy; it asks for specific acts of depravity with feigned modesty. It begs. It says things I wouldn’t say in my right mind.
Rape me. Take me. Fuck me till I cannot walk anymore. Let me be your whore.
Only she understands the violence. For I live in the strata where I deign to call sex a beautiful act, she calls it like it is.
The instinctive abuse of the flesh of one another. The destructive need that lunges forward like an uncontrollable beast only to diminish on its own time.
The nails. The biting. The breathlessness. The slapping. The localized assault. The heartrate. The insanity.
The obvious quest to push each other closer and closer to death. La petite mort, the French call it for a reason.
Only she can appreciate the abandon. Not just a drunken lowering of inhibitions; the complete abandonment of notions of right-wrong, black-white, shame, fear, insecurity. Anything that gets in the way of what she needs. The single-minded focus that overtakes everything in the quest of the myriad variables that all add up to pleasure.
Only she knows the dirt, smut and mess. Washed up I walk in the streets but she revels in the indifference of all that is dirty.
The dried blood under the lip. Drool dripping down the jaw. Spit. Juices flowing around in every direction; on fingers, in hair, in the mouth.
The feel of man and woman; sticky, wet and bodily. The scent of man and woman; unpleasantly pleasant.
Male and female, in all their guttural glory.
Only she knows how the music of sex is created. Not through the careful deliberation of a concert pianist.
The gasping. The moaning. The screaming. The begging.
They all originate in an artless place. In impulse, stimulus and reflex. Reactions so honest that it feels wrong when I try to recreate them sans the sentiment.
I say these words.
Temptation. Pleasure. Agony. Violence. Assault. Sex. Need. Desire. Urgency. Mess. Dirt. Satisfaction. Abandonment. Inhibitions. Ache. Longing. Shame. Depravity. Guttural. Pain. Consumption.
But she, she understands them.
She understands that when we fuck, we don’t share the highest of us; we share the lowest.
And that really is the hardest thing to share.