They said it was like flying. Flying through a solar system, like in Star Trek, the pinpoints of light becoming white laser streaks. All blackness and light. Plunging into the heat of a solar flare, feeling flames reach and grope and lick.
They were wrong.
My body rises to meet his in a motion as instinctual, primal, as Adam’s first erection. There are no sounds but the pant of us, the liquid sounds of body, the creak of bed springs. And a snow plow, scraping and banging its blade on the pavement in a dirty circle of streetlight. My fingers dig his flesh, his strong back, thrusting buttocks, holding on and pulling him closer, closer dammit, closer than that, and he’s inside me in a painful, delirious slip that is somehow other-worldly when coupled with his sigh of oh god.
It’s not flying. It’s lying and writhing. It’s begging with body language, with desperation and a rushing, roaring river of desire. It’s drowning beneath another’s flesh. It’s feeling solid matter all around and inside you, and when his mouth covers your mouth and his tongue presses your tongue, when the muscles scream and you say no, not yet, your heartbeat is temporarily, permanently lost somewhere inside his. I look up into his face, note the wonder there, the intensity, the concentration, the revelation. Sensation. It has a face. It is his.
We almost always come together. Holding and pushing, separate, yet still so very united. I don’t feel much, not much other than eroticism and his cock stabbing me like a Psycho blade. Can murder be tender? A month ago I’d have said no, of course not, are you crazy?
That was before I woke with the blood on me. Whose, I don’t know. Whoever bled that much must have died, it was all over me. My breasts were slick with it, my belly shone crimson plastic and the sheets were purple. The moon played in the corner of my eye, a flat dancing Corel plate. His body rested beside me, thighs over mine. My fingers played in it without my permission, figure skating eights and loops and triple-lutzes, and it felt thick like motor oil and thin like sweetened tea and cool on the surface but warm and hardening on my skin.
I remember lying next to a stream when I was a little girl. Lying and watching a deer drink. Her neck was slender as a whip, her legs fine as toothpicks. Her eyes watched me as she sucked water up that long neck, one foot in the water, ears forward. I could hear her heartbeat through the ground. It was fast, hollow, temporary.
The lion came out of the tree line without sound. She never saw him. He was on her, his giant paws pulling her neck back, back until it snapped with the sound of breaking twigs or popping corn, and it broke, too, the scream in her throat so that silence fell as quickly, abruptly as she did. His pink tongue passed over his black and white whiskers before he broke her hide. I’d turned my head and watched a purple cloud swirl downstream, flowing into the heart of the earth.
Still my fingers play with the blood. The snowplow has gone. The street lamp dims for some reason. The moon rises out of sight, and two stars watch me like cosmic eyes.
He rests beside me, lips parted, face smooth as a child’s. I hate to leave him. We’ve only begun. But sometimes the choice isn’t offered. It’s made for you.
I take his tired phallus from within me and rise. There will be other deer on which to feed.