The ghost of sex

When you and I undress each other, our ghosts stand by, already naked, stripped to their gleaming bones. The skeleton ghost is the blueprint we bring to the bed, or bend over the table, the faint inked plan of whatever edifice we construct to interpret it, casting its shadow where our bodies meet.

It’s not the fucking our bodies do that defines us, but how much ghost bone we reveal, or glimpse unshown. The responses we have learnt, the party tricks we have been taught, the things we are driven to do in order to feel – they all adjust minutely to what we sense, and recreate themselves in familiar phrases formed with a new vocabulary. There are responses and initiatives your body dictates to mine, that your mind intructs mine in; ways in which your mind alone can seduce my body, and that my body can lure your mind. This is the flesh on the bones of my skeleton sex, and what other men have given and taken away is what I clothe them in.

These pristine ghosts don’t bear the scar tissue we do, they have not been twisted and molded by experience the way we have. They have no memory of all the other bodies that taught us what we crave and what we fear. Your cock, my cunt, your balls, my breasts, have left their imprint in liquid DNA on others’skin, but not enough to mark these invisible bones, or dent the rattling chains that can bind us or unlock us.

You kiss me, turn me over and fuck me, with all the skill you’ve learned, and all my words you’ve heard, and everything my body tells you in the way it answers all you ask of it. I fuck you back, fighting through all I know for the taste of your replies to me. In the dark my skeletal ghost sex kisses yours, and learns the shape its flesh must take, and how to dress to please you.