Cold Lips

I can still taste the last cigarette from her thin, cold, wet lips. I can see her in her crumpled pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. I can smell her on me. It’s a mixture of laundry detergent and moisturizer. Her clothes are always freshly cleaned. The weight of her tits is still tangible in my palms. The crests of her hips still feel present against mine. She is still here in many ways, though she is hours away now and likely halfway home.

July 30, 2006

My girlfriend just left with her husband. They drove off a little while ago. My twenty-eighth birthday is in two days. They came down for the weekend to celebrate it a little early. We spent the past 24 hours drinking, smoking, fucking, and passing out, at different intervals. Last night the orgy culminated with my wife riding her boyfriend in the cowgirl position while Iggy Pop played “Fall in Love with Me” loudly over the stereo. It was charming, pleasant, and somewhat surreal. The multi-colored lamp tinted the dimly lit room softly. It was hazy. I was hazy. My girlfriend and I had just finished. We were recovering and watching the two of them. My mind wandered, as it tends to do when I’m drunk and high. I watched kind of absently. The very first time you watch your wife fuck another man in front of you it’s a bit of a shock, but kind of titillating. It’s kind of like the first time you get tattooed, pierced, shoplift, or use any type of illicit substance. Once you get accustomed to it, it’s just fun. After a while, it loses its uniqueness and becomes kind of ordinary. We did it to do it. It was fun. It was rehearsed. I’m one year older. Now that they’ve gone, my wife and I have decided to fuck again just to prove that we still can.

Lip-Biting

This girl is biting my lower lip so hard that I’m concerned it might tear. She’s also pulling my hair with one hand and trying to flay the skin from my back with the other. The women have made a competition of leaving claw marks on our backs. It’s beginning to lose its tone of playfulness, and it’s becoming a subtly nasty game. Then he and I have to wear these markings of the women’s ownership on our backs. It all hurts. Not pleasant sexual hurting (except for the hair-pulling, which I love tremendously), but actual painful hurting. At the same time, there is cool spring morning air coming through the open window. It’s ventilating our tangled mess of limbs, and feels cold against the back of my balls and crotch. It’s nice, and almost offsets all of the pain caused by her intense climax. She fucks completely, like she’s trying to pull me through her. She fucks like there’s nothing else in the world she’d rather be doing. It’s absolutely wonderful. She fucks like it’s going to solve something, though at times I suspect it might be having the reverse effect.

Into A Storm

I’m driving into a storm. I’ve got the window open. The air smells magnificent. It’s chilly. Iggy Pop’s American Caesar is loud on the radio. The writing on that album is goddamned bulletproof. It is unimpeachable. Iggy is the man, no fucking doubt about it. The music is louder than the wind coming through my open window. I don’t want to get wet, but I don’t want to lose this air either. Fast, cool, clean, wet air. My cloud of long straight brown hair was billowing around my head. I’ll wait until the last minute, past the last minute. A few drops won’t hurt. They’ll start gradually, one at a time. I’ll drive. I’m not scared. I love the storm. I’m not scared to love the storm. The storm loves me. This wonderful-smelling air is its gift to me.

Broccoli

You don’t know that you don’t like broccoli until you’ve eaten broccoli. What’s more is that there’s a multiplicity of different ways to prepare it. Until you’ve tried broccoli every which way it can be prepared, you can't really be sure that you don’t like it. I’m generally not a fan of broccoli. It’s not really my thing, though I’ve had it on a few occasions. It’s not terrible. If you’re in the right mood, it can be pretty good. It’s not likely that I’ll ever seek it out explicitly, but if a situation presents itself, and there’s some decent broccoli on the table, I’ll likely eat it again.