The first piece I ever read at Confessions back when I was just visiting from LA

Read on Feb. 4, 2024

Image taken from “The Bats” by Jim Trainor

“I like to have sex subconscious. AKA, I like to wake up to it inside me.”

And by it I mean a glittering image of you I’ve perfected through close study and imagination, and by inside me I mean in my mind’s eye.

We took naps together because the weight of the world always comes crashing down at 1pm on a Tuesday. I would lie beside you and dream of your face. Your smell in the room and the sound of your breathing made it lifelike, and internally I caressed you. I made love to you, indexed your qualities, while girlishly assigning meaning and mythology to taste. I’d get so relaxed and drunk on the image I’d wake myself up and witness the brief hallucination – the double exposure as my figment was overwritten by your real sleeping face.

My projection of assumptions and wishes onto you was a form of echolocation. I waited patiently for them to bounce back, detecting the aberrations. These I arranged into a shape that, over time, began to look like you.

I like to have sex semi-conscious. AKA, I like to wake up to your cock working me open before I’ve shaken the phantom distances and other mirages of sleep. I like how my perception bends while you’re bending my pliant body. You’re miles and miles away, sitting like an enormous moon on the edge of the horizon, touching me softly with your beam.

In this vast expanse I am free. I transform into impossible beings and materials effortlessly until I am made of suede and elastic and you’re wearing me like a glove. I sleep for 20 years in five minutes; by now we might have two or three school-age children.

You’re fucking me, but when I finally open my eyes, I see a face you only make when you’re alone and touching yourself with intractable, animal-brained concentration.

For a moment I am a part of your body and I’m shaking with pleasure.

I am so afraid of losing my grip on you, of looking away too long, or forgetting to double knot the tie that binds.

So much fretting and sweating, tension over details. I felt neither beautiful nor desired in adolescence and if you don’t tell me when the sex is over I’ll go on fucking you till I knock myself out, like a moth beats itself to death against a bright, warm bulb.

Please grab me by the scruff and spread me out flat. I’m so tired, I can’t keep a grip on you with my rigid hands anymore, I can’t flex a single muscle. So please just lie down and put it inside me so I can keep holding you.