Every once in a while I do something thick. Like those placebo itches that simply aren’t sated if scratched immediately. Like when your stomach itched and you scratched it there like a fuck wit when you should have scratched your left shoulder blade. Like I should have been curled up in bed finishing the Brothers Karamazov and non participle in midnight romps. Like a frustrated staccato. Our bodies tepid like some deranged Morse code.
The one advantage of casual sex is of course the delicious unfeelingness of it. The utter unspeciality.
When you’ve been through your share of men without ever having uttered the all altering three words, the weight of it does um.. weigh one down a bit. Just like the burden of never being kissed. Just like the weight of virginity. So I planted it on the lad. A smooth touchdown. Immediately light, unfearing and free.