Let’s Fuck

Let’s fuck.

Now. With words, hesitant and unsure, growing, building. I want. I want to want with you, to hear you finish that sentence, to shape it and form it and choke on it and claim it.

Tomorrow. Yesterday. In memory and in fantasy, in the quiet hours of the night where the things we fear seem at once larger and smaller than we remember, when the demons illuminated in moonlight are the kind of terrifying we want to dance with.

Let’s fuck in the middle of the day, when the sunlight streaks through the windows and we cannot crawl into the safety of the darkness, where the bright light burns our eyes and warms our skin and we lay, languid and full of lust.

Don’t worry about tomorrow; we are here, now.

Let’s fuck. Let’s fuck because… because why? Do we need reasons? Let’s fuck because we ache for the collision of skin, because it feels good, and you feel good, and I feel good, and you love the way we smell and I love the sounds you make and because this, this right here, feels good in this moment.

Let’s fuck, I whisper, because it is in the space between your skin and mine that I find we are most alive.

I do not have the luxury to be afraid, and I can feel the pressure of words I want to say. Let’s fuck because, because, there is no because except that my skin is aching for you and I want to know if you feel it too.

What would I say if I wasn’t afraid?

Oh, I want you more than you know, or perhaps you do know, guess, suspect, imagine. If I haven’t told you, it’s for fear of risking redundancy more than it is a lack of desire; I remember the nights we stayed up talking until neither of us had a filter any longer and I could feel your desire across the miles and, god, it was the most delicious ache.

If I could drink sunlight, golden beams turned liquid in my mouth, it would taste like your desire stretched out across distance and time.

I would paint my fears in purple and let them out into the wind. I would tell you that I kissed the edge of a knife just to see the light of surprise behind your eyes. If we fucked every time I wanted to, we would have fucked in three different public bathrooms, the inside of your car, behind a dumpster in an alleyway, and on the countertop.

Inaccurate. If we fucked every time I wanted to, we would have never made it to any of those places in the first place.

I want to fuck with you with a cigarette in my mouth and my boots on and my skin held safely in the arms of a leather jacket and.

I want to fuck you until we see the glow of dawn breaking through the cracks in the fabric and we spill back into bed, messy and ill-contained within our skin and.

I want to fuck you in the back of a car, desperate and raw and fast and forbidden and.

I want to fuck you quietly and loudly, with my words and my mouth and every piece of my body I can summon to be fully present here, with you, in this moment.

I want to fuck you like we are running out of time, like this moment is the last moment and we have nothing to lose and everything to gain and all reticence drops away.

I want to fuck you unafraid, whispering words as they breathe through my skin. I want to fuck you like my body is poetry, and yours is form, and we mesh together to create something beyond language and written with touch.

I want to fuck you when your eyes are tender and soft, and when they are sharper than the edges we dance along, and when they burn into me like this, like me, like what you see is exactly where you want to be.

I want to fuck you in ways I can’t imagine, plunging depths I cannot fathom and yet, here we are at the bottom of a chasm and you are holding my hand in the darkness.

I want to fuck you even when words rhyme and I cringe at the sound of them read out loud, when whispers fail and words choke and my hands freeze and my muscles clench because that, in that, there is desire stronger than anything I can name and it is like all pain: breathe through it. You’ll be ok.

These are the words clawing at the back of my throat and pressing against my lips, the words that are poised on the ends of my fingertips as I sit, quietly, holding these sensations inside this body, contained but not constrained, funneled outward in a spiral dance of language fraught with ache, my hand on a blade, the metal cold against my skin and I remember, and remember again.

I want to fuck you. I could get drunk on hearing those words and I forget that I can choose to use them too, that they are not someone else’s words to claim but my own, the taste and texture of them just as sweet from my lips as from yours. And so I say them, and say them again, the sticky-sweet honey of desire dripping, even if it is only ever into my own hands. I want to fuck you. And in that, the distance and space between your skin and mine, the infinite ways that that could be rest quietly, easily, softly and I can remember, in this moment, just to breathe.