Sylvie Hill

In The End, This…

“I don’t tell you about my sexual exploits when I was then, so what makes you think I want to hear about yours?” he shot back, and I raised my brows, turned down the corners of my mouth, grunted and figured — ‘good point’.

But why the fuck should he care? His anger excited me. I hovered like a helicopter, buzzing heated in a strong mix of emotion feeling disciplined by a sharp tongue and moral mind fighting to protect a friendship. To safeguard the integrity of a friendship. Then it tasted as sweet, but sour, complicated by thoughts that maybe this guy liked me? Maybe he didn’t want to hear of other guys fucking me? His force but seeming vulnerability endeared me immensely as I feared another altercation, worrying of my next misstep. His force and his honesty and the delusion it could be some mystery, like he was attracted to me, was savoury. Either way, it confused me because I thought we were platonic and could talk about anything. And this all enticed me to want to love his body clothed and naked and rub it raw and manipulate him into so many positions and yield to his commands all with the expressed purpose of relaying for him in body, sure, of telling him through body, yes, some shit that went down with me on drunken nights between the sheets, and always with the goal of finishing in exhaustion leaving him only enough energy to joke at the end of my trip, “now wasn’t that the best lay of your life,” in an accent I have long forgotten but spoke-imitated on self-loving nights, allowing me to comfort the uncertainty I perceived he waxed in wit and waned with edge by telling him this: “You are the best one yet.”

SH 2013