“Sorry I’m so dry. I’m on the pill.”
She was dry. I had been closing my eyes to shut out a headache and sustain a hard-on. The sex wasn’t going well, but I looked up at her and as she bit her lip in concentration my fervor was renewed. A little spit, a little tuck and we shared blinks and smiles until I was ready.
“It’s ok. I’m on the pill.”
It was ok. My seed fell on rocky ground and that was that. Another lay. There was no seduction, the whole thing felt like an arrangement, like every time before, only this time the clean-up onus was hers.
I had always associated sex with love, but the echo of those disenchanting words “I’m on the pill” rattled in my naïve head. She didn’t want all of me, nobody did anymore, what with my family tree now blooming and blocking out the sun. I had become a product of the whiskey night, of desire and rubbers and pills. I would have to learn the art of disassociation and just try to have fun. And not love.
Now I sweat more after sex than before and during. Was it what I wanted? Was it what she wanted? Was it what we wanted? Is there a we? Sex used to be a beginning of adventure and love but sex had become compulsory, an end of booze, hormones and shared sleeping quarters.
“It’s Friday. I’m on the pill.”
Work-week almost done and I’m looking at wines but everything worth drinking comes in a glass bottle with a real cork and is too expensive. Unsustainable. What if I should fall in love and want a second bottle? I remember the Scotch in the cabinet with the waffle iron and leave the wine shop with empty hands. I walk back home. Pour two-fingers and pinch a cigarette. I refuse to brush my teeth. I belch. I fart. I curse. I pick my nose. Just trying to avoid pussy on a Friday night. But she keeps coming after me and whispers in my waxen ear…
“Lay with me. I’m on the pill.”
No comments:
Post a Comment