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.
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.