Your eyes light up. You receive more than anticipated. Enduring hours of pointless banter seems worth it. You’re not eighteen anymore. Receiving an orgasm doesn’t warrant ignorance. They claim to give you many. Selfless, they reiterate. It’s laughable; you remain skeptical, kissing them anyway. You’re far too in the mood, thinking back to an old friend’s advice of searching for pleasure in the Mindless. Their eyes drill holes into your pupils, seeking the rifts to your soul. A desire to impress their mark, a twisted predatory method of coercing you to fall into a licentious cycle of late-night rendezvous. Pseudo-passion overload, ingenuous first-impressions. An invitation to domesticate. You take the wheel, guide a path to mutual satisfaction. They repeat, no strings attached, as you thread one through every erogenous part of their body. Love begins to gesticulate from their labile face. You reflect how this may be perpetuated by many failed commitments. Repulsive, though it’s hard to blame them. Suddenly a flaky face behind tousled hair hangs like a fern above your body, reminding you of a desiccated swamp, and the monsters that inhabit it. A tongue of sandpaper coarsely curls in your mouth, inducing the pain of a thousand canker sores. You’ve invited an ambivalent wretched earthling into your home. And you’re guilty for fetishizing them in the first place.
This piece was originally published in Visitant.