Kiss Me

Two months without sex isn’t working out too well for me. All the sexual energy I planned on pouring into creative and practical projects – painting my room, sanding down a desk I hauled back from the dump at work, getting the airconditioning fixed – goes into photographing my ass, and trying to draw parallels between the reasons I photograph it bigger than it really is (ass centre stage, with the rest of my body flowing away from it: my pictures of my body become increasingly body-as-adjunct-to-the –bottom-that ate the world) with overexposure to art galleries as a child, when the truth is probably just that I’m a crap photographer.

This morning before work I sat up on the smoking balcony and thought of being fucked: my thighs splayed open and pushed back and a hard cock driven savagely into me. I came, sitting demurely in the chair, before I had a chance to realize that my body would do that to me, and gathered myself up and walked dreamily back to what I had to do, still unfocused because it wasn’t an I’m done now orgasm but an I’m just getting started one.

My body stretches ever further and more easily, and I push it more. The weather inches closer to too hot every day, and I lie in the bath at the end or beginning of every day and try to remember which one it is. I pass my weeks in a state of hazy, aroused contentment, and at the weekends I sleep as though it were a drug. I’m waiting to be woken up by a kiss. At the very least.