It’s weird having sex with someone who’s had it before. Not that I’m saying it’s not fun or anything. It’s just they are on you and then they move into positions they already know and they are comfortable and you’re bony so you move a bit, over there, yeah, and you clap and they clap and we clap and then it’s over and they fall asleep and heck, you wonder if you were any different during the whole thing or if they were.
How many times did they tell you to kiss not so hard? A few. But you liked the force. It was passion. They didn’t need such unadulteration. They knew better. This was but another time. Not the time. A time. And it will tick again, you think, like all things do eventually. Maybe in the morning it’ll pass or the afternoon or some three years when you meet in a coffee shop and you wonder if they ever think that I saw this person naked and vulnerable and here they are now, dressed, moving their hands back and forth carelessly. They used to touch me with those hands. Now they are trying to talk about politics or the weather or combining the two into some weird analogy like the mayor is like snow: beautiful in the early run, but a pain in the ass when he keeps going on and on. Was he always such a cliché? Did I lay with a cliché? Did I make love-making into making-love, a machine that can be modified with this elbow here and this tongue there and ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that’s it. That’s right. Right there. Fuck. Right there, fuck.
The coffee goes cold. The pastry is left uneaten. The day goes on. So must it.