Monday, June 25, 2007

Whiskeydrunk sex and Jesus Christ.

She turns to me slowly, those eyes locked in a dead stare. I need this, I want this and she does too. This is a declaration of affection, the feverish grasp of youthful abandonment. With a final methodical gaze at her face I kiss her, using my thumb and forefinger to hold her soft chin and hollow cheek in place. We sit in a room full of those we know. The host left twenty minutes ago and everyone is fighting over the last bits of sanity. She and I rise.

Without deliberation we sneak into a guest bedroom, the lights are on and the bed is small. We stand, kissing, embraced and locked in a moment of pure light. I need this, I want this and she's begging for it. The pink rush runs through my body like a strong drink, quickly erasing the traces of trepidation that may have remained. A disruption, an occurrence, a change of scenery.

A guitar case with a Jesus sticker. A twin bed with a white bar frame. Knowing the blocking for this scene I unbutton my shirt, she her pants. Soon following the script, we breathe frantic and interrupted in a whirlwind of clothes and flesh. She always hated that word. The lights went off, she was nude, I with a shirt on, slowly removing it, without a sense of direction in the blackened room. I flip the lights on once more, for footing.

I see her body, Christ she is beautiful. Her legs lay crossed, skin smooth and even. Her breasts sit, supported somewhat by her left arm, which holds up her head. I look down at myself, my stomach hangs over the elastic band of my underwear. My skin looks tired and riddled with moles and red spots.

I turn the lights off again and climb onto the bed. We kiss again, deep and passionate, her skin brushing the disgusting hair sprouting on my chest. Without any real preparation I enter her and she moans, I exhale deeply in agreement.

This condom is made of tar, I swear.

The drinks begin to spin my head.

I kiss her continually, hoping that something would redeem this slowly fading encounter. Her breath brushes against my left ear.

Nothing.

I pull out. I needed this, I wanted this, and like times before I let her down. After it all there was nothing to be spoken of but a shaken boy trying to carve his name into the stone walls of sexuality. She seemed impressed that I got it up at all. My cigarette keeps a sense of reality, my ego continually kicking me where it counts.

This is manhood.

1 comment:

Rodrigo said...

Oi, achei teu blog pelo google tá bem interessante gostei desse post. Quando der dá uma passada pelo meu blog, é sobre camisetas personalizadas, mostra passo a passo como criar uma camiseta personalizada bem maneira. Até mais.