Painting by Till Rabus

The first time we had sex it hurt to sit down for two days.

You were etched down my back. You were tattooed onto my neck. My thighs were sprinkled with your prints and I still tasted like you even after I gargled and spit.

You clawed me open and pined me down and took my breath away. My best friend said you needed to learn how to be gentle.

We were never gentle, were we? We were fingers in hair and mouth on mouth and “Oh my god, I need to have you right now.” We were in the bed, in the shower, on the kitchen counter, in front of the mirror, on the desk, on the couch.

And it was hot.

It was climbing through my window in the middle of the night and it was naked all day under the sheets. It was mouthfuls of champagne and it was bite marks and feeling your heartbeat, telling secrets and stories. Wrapped around each other, we weren’t sure where my body ended and yours began. But we would keep going; arms pined over our heads, fuck me.

Heat can burn and it was late night fights, slaps across your face, no you cannot leave this room, tears, whiskey hot down our throats, blocking the door, you bitch and fuck you. It was ice on our wounds and deleted numbers. It became, “oh god there he is” and avoid eye contact, which turned into “hello, how are you” and a nod on the street.

We were never gentle. We were tumultuous and we were passionate, wild and naked. Naked bodies, naked souls and naked hearts, but never gentle. Were we in love? We were the crazy kind of love.

Fiery, roaring, breath-snatching, red-hot love. Bubbles deep in your stomach, head spinning, heart pounding kind of love. And it was gorgeous.

It was the first time you said, “I love you” and really meant it. It was home cooked meals and, “I’ve never told anyone that before.” It was talking about the future. It was a roller coaster and it was falling, falling, falling. It was hungry and unquenchable and, as you liked to call it, insatiable. But it was also devastating, as this kind of love tends to be.

Sometimes I want gentle. I want green tea with honey with hand holding and soft kisses. I want comfort and coziness. I don’t want to worry about the future, just where we’re going for dinner. I want notes on my pillow and laughter splitting open my belly.

We never laughed that much, did we? I don’t want to cry over you, I want to cry over a cheesy movie. You don’t always have to kiss away my tears, because sometimes I just need a shoulder to cry on. I’m sick of make up sex. I want I love you sex or maybe even I’m too tired for sex, where you just lay here with me.

I want warm. I want soup and sunshine and soft blankets and don’t always try to kiss me sometimes just hold me. I want private jokes and to make fun of and be made fun of. I want trust. I want conversations about nothing and about everything. I want fiery and passionate, but I want ease and carefree. And goddamnit I want gentle.

After all those nights, days and months filled with all those I-love-yous, I’ve realized you never once made love to me.

—

Submitted to ArtParasites by Marguerite P.

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