Exchange What's Mine...

Exchange What’s Mine For What Is Yours.


So here we stand, again, next to your bed in the semi-darkness. Your shirt’s on the floor, my shirt’s in your hands. My jeans are strangled around my ankles; Frankly, I don’t know where your jeans went.
Your back curves as you reach and press upward to kiss me, and my hands move
to their inevitable places, travelling smoothly to rest upon the soft heaps of your hips. Mechanical movements.
My head is swimming gently from the beer. I’m not sure if its that that’s making my stomach clench and unwind or if it’s the numbing sameness of you, of this.
Proud of your bulges, you writhe sinuously as you slide your tongue in, out, into my mouth, and I’ll move my fingers, my lips, to your neck, your chest – the collarbones jutting – and, predictably, to your breasts.
The skin of them is mottled, silvery-shiny stretch marks on transparent skin, with veins tracing pink-blue-purple lines about the place like an underground map. You sigh in response to my movements, and it sounds forced. I wonder if you’re thinking the same thing as me, or if I’m just imagining it.
Your hands slide to those certain places, and I respond. There is a profound smugness to your smile, and I almost recoil. I want to shake you silly, tell you it’s a physiological reaction-response, nothing to do with any kind of “skill” on your part. Oh, never mind, have your fun.
I hide my face in your neck, kissing vaguely as my hands go where they’re pushed to. You gasp, and sigh, and press your fingers hard into my back.
I lower you onto the bed, and you lie prone as my mouth follows familiar routes to what is, I am sure, our mutual boredom and disappointment. I go to work manipulating slack, raw folds of skin that move beneath my lips’ presses, my tongue’s weary exploration of familiar ground. With your head tipped back like that, up there, you can’t see me roll my eyes.
You groan, and writhe and shiver, forced, and pull me upwards by the top of my arms. In one movement I settle on top of you, chest crushed to chest, and slip within you. It is so familiar now, we both know precisely where to position our legs to make it as simple and free from fuss as possible. Convenience.
You make a light gasp, and your hips respond, ramming toward mine, over and over. I feel parts of you shifting beneath me, reminding me that you are essentially a skeleton with flesh and pockets of fat distributed about, the way we are all made up. The thought is incredibly unpleasant.
A rocking back and forth ensues between us, your legs locked around my waist as we both avert our eyes. My hands do some more half-hearted grasping, and your fingers press hard into my back, again.
I lean my forehead onto the pillow beside your head, into your hair reeking of apples or something, and carry on the passing back and forth of movement towards the inevitable.
Your responses become more urgent, and I adjust mine in kind. I make the sounds and move my hands as appropriate, and now we’re jerky, stop-starting on our way to the same old rapture, rising-falling, rising-falling, rising and we’re done.
Again, we’re all done.
I’ll lose my hands in your hair, breathe shallow, and hide my face in the pillow. You lay beneath me, reacting, breathing, shifting. You say something beautiful, and I say something back.
And we’re all done.