Velocity

Still Wet

15 StiLL WEt friday the thirteenth. i am superstitious, and my friend just told me she fucked a man without protection, without that extra, squeaky bland wall between their skin. She said, He didn’t come inside me, and Isn’t sex always the mystery? and wants to know what i think. Sometimes i don’t know if i can be honest, i forget what honest is. She is getting married to another man, one who likes the sad seed of a heart she keeps tucked in her chest like a pair of old black panties.When they fuck, she says, she thinks about wind and the spaces between leaves. She wants to know what i think. Sometimes i don’t like the man who has sex with me. Sometimes i pull his bones into mine like they are breath, sometimes i hate the barrier that is our skin.When i was in love, i needed to squeeze and bite and hit. i think i loved a man on his knees, my finger up his ass, the power in me, whatever that means. the bony woman at the corner store is suspicious of me, how i show up once a week in this neighborhood, buy orange juice, a newspaper, maybe milk. here, everyone is somebody, so who can i be?this time it is way past morning, and my hair is still wet. i am freshly washed, freshly fucked, and missing the ache that has lingered from the end of my last love.there is an equation here— (sex minus love) (love plus pain) (if sex or love, then _____) —i can’t figure it out.the woman’s overly wrinkled, tanned skin folds up as she greets me, but her blue eyes stay hard and thick. She asks how i am. i am not supposed to be honest, but i can’t remember how to lie. i think about my friend. She’s wondering about pre-ejaculatory fluid and wants to know what i think. i press toward the woman a palm full of change. Our skins touch as i pour the metal from my hand to hers, exact amount, an equal exchange. ...