On Empty Sex
“Drink?” I ask as my fingertips graze the sides of a glass bottle reading “Jameson.” Her eyes sweep down, and back to me. “Milk,” she whispers with a playful lopsided grin. I stare back at her and wonder whose daughter she is.
Do you have a brother, one that teases you? Or a sister, you share shoes with? Which neighborhood abode on your street do you remember best? The one that housed your best friend with the red trim and the white shutters? Or the tiny wooden cabin with the sweet old couple that always made shortbreads and lemonade? Do you like to be fucked from behind? Do you prefer to be taken slow and sweetly, or quick and roughly? Will you scream when you cum? Will you run your nails down my back when I slip inside of you?
I place my palm against her cheek, letting my fingers run through her long brown tresses and gently thumb her ear. Her hair is made of silk and smells of fresh flowers and female musk. I move her jaw towards mine and there is fire. My curious attraction instantly morphs into an all-consuming desire. Time, which had (up until now) been crawling past me, sluggishly creeping from moment to moment, now became a violent twister, playing a game of tag with my desire. I thrust her slight body against the kitchen wall and begin to lift. Our lips tangle with one another, and never dare to part. She tastes sour and coppery, but I like it. I want this, need this, must have this.
Suddenly, it hits. I set her down and let my mouth hover over hers for a moment. Empty. This is empty. The entirety of my passion rapidly drains, taking the colour in my cheeks along with it. This is empty writing. This is empty sex. We are empty people.
I look into her eyes and forcefully pull her towards me. We tear ravenously at each other’s clothes and fuck wildly on the kitchen tiles. The harsh, cold ceramic eats at my knees while my nipples make instantaneous tracks along the glistening sweat of her stomach. My wrists begin to ache as she cums, and she screams, not unlike how I imagined. I stand back and survey my conquest: the curves of her hips, the dew on her forehead, the stringy wet hair plucking from her crown. She is beautiful, for a second. She is both my horror and my savior. Throwing my dress over my head, I turn and walk out the door into the cold, stale night. Embers of a cigarette spit at my knuckles. So what, then, was the point? We are nothing, and this is nothing; but does this weightlessness negate it’s own significance? My heavy shoes create hollow thump thumps as I trod down the stairs and into the darkness.