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Perspective |
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He
holds my shaking frame close. He strokes my hair. He kisses my forehead and
then my lips. He lays me down to bed. He starts to walk away. He catches my
needy face in the mirror. He turns and walks back to me, saying nothing. He
undoes my shirt. He pulls it off of me. He does the same to himself. He
undoes my pants. He pulls them off me. I lie almost still; limp like a doll.
He undoes his jeans and takes them off. He takes of my socks, his socks. He
pulls my underwear away; like undressing a sleeping child. He takes off his
own, and lies down beside me. He whispers in my ear, “You want it, don’t
you?” He wants a response. He won’t do it
otherwise. He’ll walk away and leave me, so I say, “Yes.” He gets on top of
me. He kisses my lips roughly; he bits it until he draws blood. He licks the
blood away, like a sadist. I moan out for more; masochist. My erection’s
pressing against his. No time for foreplay. He licks away more of the ever
flowing blood and gets off of me slowly. He gently turns me over. I lie in the
centre of the double bed on my front. A floppy doll, apart from my erection.
He takes the lube from a drawer. He gets a large amount on his fingers and
without warning his fingers penetrate me. I moan. He smears the lube inside
me. He pulls his fingers away. He climbs on top of me. He forces it in
quickly. He moves in and out. He hits the spot again and again. I moan. He
moans. He comes. I come. He gets off of me, and turns me over, covered in
sweat. He lies down beside me. We look like a
couple. I look at him with glazed eyes. He looks back and smiles. We do this
again and again, several times that night almost every night. Always I do
nothing. He comes round one evening. He lets
himself in. I’m asleep. He lays down beside me; we’re both fully clothed; I
was waiting for him. He holds me as I sleep. I wake up first. I turn over to
face him. He wakes up. “Why?” I ask him. He cries. “I want more.” He tells me.
He says, “I love you.” He says, “I want you to love me too.” He says, “What
we have isn’t enough.” I tell him, “It isn’t a relationship.”
He shakes his head. I tell him, “It’s almost rape.” He shakes his head and
cries more. I say, “It’s over.” He says, “It never begun.” I hold his shaking frame close. I
stroke his hair. I kiss his forehead and then his lips. I lay him down to
bed. I start to walk away. I catch his needy face in the mirror. I turn and
walk back to him, saying nothing. I undo his shirt. I pull it off him. I do
the same to myself. I undo my pants. I pull them off myself. He lies almost
still; limp like a doll. I undo his jeans and take them off him. I take of
his socks, my socks. I pull his underwear away; like undressing a sleeping
child. I take off my own, and lie down beside him. I whisper in his ear, “You
want it, don’t you?” I lie down beside him. We look like a
couple. He looks at me with glazed eyes. I look back and smile. We do this
again and again, several times that night, almost every night. Always he does
nothing. I smile, “I wanted you to have more.” I
tell him. I say, “I don’t love you.” I say, “I don’t want you to love me.” I
say, “What we have isn’t right.” He tells me, “It isn’t a relationship.”
I shake my head. He tells me, “It’s almost rape.” I nod and smile more. “It’s
over.” I say, “It’s worse than a
relationship.” He cries. I say, “You wanted it. Just not like that, I know.”
Then I smile some more and say, “It never begun.” |