It’s difficult to write or speak sometimes because the only good language between us is touch. This is where I end and you begin. There will always be some crisis—people in long lines waiting for bread, crowds burning flags, burning themselves. The universe is place without large-scale peace. Except—I can close my eyes. I don’t have to look. I can just feel. Touch. Soft or not. With a loud smack.
I can close my eyes, and you can rub your unshaven face along my inner thigh, obliterate the rest of the world with tenderness. I want it now and I’m wet but with slow fingers you are still caressing, over and up my torso and back again. The tender spot below my nipples. This is everything important and urgent and necessary, and it makes me want to scream and cry.
The blessed event.
With an arm holding me around the waist, you finally touch inside of me. I am without breath and without thought and soon I won’t remember my name.
I want your permission to be completely selfish in this fantasy. It doesn’t seem like I’m doing much, maybe I seem passive even, but trust me that I’m very actively enjoying this. It takes a lot of effort to blot everything else out.
So now you’re hard—have been for some time. Go ahead, rub on some spit and ease into my ass. It’s not difficult. Everything is full of electricity. I am very careful with my finger on my clit; I let the pleasure coming from my ass dictate when I’m going to come and then just help it along with my finger. Oh, and your voice: tell me anything in a whisper, your hot breath and rough chin and soft lips touching my ear. Tell me I’m beautiful, tell me you want me, tell me you’re going to come. Let me come first. Then, or at the same time, or maybe because of it, you come. We are reduced to rubble.
Peace does exist, and it’s only this, the direct experience of it, that can convince me that it’s real.
Lucie is a writer currently living in Budapest, Hungary.