We’re in the midst of a crisis, which is why I haven’t written, but it feels dishonest to hide. Not a relationship crisis, a life crisis.

A wondering where I’ll be living in a month crisis.

The same kind of crisis that defines my life pretty often.


There are some words I hate. Crave. Moist. Cum. These words have no place in my sexual vocabulary, tired tropes that they are, staring me in the face like the ghosts of poorer writers. The currency of hacks and paid-by-the-words, strung together in sentences meant to arouse that almost always leave me flat.

But how then do I describe the need for his hand in my hair, or on my skin? How do I describe wanting to fall with him into bed and never get up again. My regret when it’s over, and I feel him pull away, knowing the space between us is widening again.

How do I talk about watching him sit and thinking of those fingers splayed on my back, his nails digging in, tracing the road of my spine?

Are there words for that, or is it all just instinct? Chemicals and reactions.


Tell me you understand. Tell me you’ve felt the pain of a lip split from chewing, the hoarseness of a throat gone dry with breathing, the strain of trying to keep in just-under-the-radar semi-silence.

I want to shout him from rooftops. I want to plead with him. I want to feel the press of my lips to his palm as he silences me, his sub-vocalizations driving me into him like a car crash.

Tell me you know how that feels.


I live at the bottom of the hierarchy. Food. Shelter. Sex.


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