Here, But Not Really

It starts the same every night.  We’d watch a movie and before he gets too sleepy he would start touching here, touching there and I’ll try my best to look like I concentrate on the movie but in reality I was just thinking, “I hope I’ll have an orgasm.” 

Just as the car the cute Irish actor was riding explodes, he tried to take off my panties. I try to stop him half-heartedly.  And he would keep at it until I stop the half-assed feigning.  

One day I would like to kick balls like that Asian actress, but I’m too afraid of injury to learn any martial arts.  Maybe I would just kick balls of inebriated men slumped in sidewalks after midnight on Saturday nights. He’s coming faster now. I’m at the point where I have to consciously control my breathing or I’ll risk sounding like a grade-C porn starlet.  I just wish they would shut up but maybe I should just stop watching those kinds of videos.  I should. He turned me sideways.  Now he’s coming from behind. He’s thrusting it harder now, the rhythm more regular, a beat faster. 

It’s time. 

I think of that night; that night the artist was at the brink of taking his own life when suddenly a melody of such beauty and intensity fills his head and buys him six more hours; that night when the man heard the front door open and rushed in the hope to see it was his wife; that night when the girl tried to flee in her mind and succeeded although her body was mutilated, shamed by her own kin; that night when the woman takes one last painful breath and spat on lung cancer’s face at last; that night when the kid’s mother marks his skin with her half-finished cigarette and him thinking, “Aaah…it’s over.  Now I can sleep.” That night. That night. 

He was shaking, holding me so tight and buried his head at the back of my neck as his love ink spilled to my body.  I smelled his hands. A good night’s sleep is certain, I could say that. Mardy

Mardy – Work in Progress by Carnegriff


11 thoughts on “Here, But Not Really

    1. Now don’t get me wrong. Man orgasms are inevitable. Fact. I’m not mad with that. Just a bit jealous really. A bit, haha. And why is this not fiction, do tell? Because it reflects so much of reality? I thought that is the purpose of fiction. But I’d settle for you calling this half-assed fiction if it comes to that, no biggie.


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