And I swear maybe no one ever does.
I’m going to see him, I’m going to neck a Viagra before just
to make sure I get hard – and you know the stupid thing is I don’t even know
that he wants a shag? I wonder, sometimes, how many guys out there are fucking
just so they can be held when it’s over; how many lonely people there are out
there taking a shag with a stranger as the price for feeling a heartbeat next
to their own, breath on their shoulder, warmth in their arms. I wonder
sometimes if any of us know why we’re running in this race, or if we have the
faintest idea what we’re running towards.
But I’ll see him, and I’ll neck a Viagra before just to make
sure, and we’ll shag and it’ll probably be fun, what with him being hot and
cute and lonely. And maybe even for a few moments I’ll forget the scrabbling
neuroticism inside my mind, worrying about him thinking about me, about me
thinking about him. And maybe we can just cum, and it’ll be a brief bliss, and
then I can just hold him, and he can feel my heartbeat, and we can feel like
we’re not alone, like just this is enough.
And staggering though darkrooms and saunas, that’s the part
of sex I always lose out on. Forgetful fucks and guys whose faces I never see,
all wild and sharp and fierce. Fucking without touching, all the time longing
to be touched. Those heartbeats afterwards; strong, deep, slow.
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