Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I’m here, aren’t I? Like, I’m here. I’m doing this and I have a reason…somewhere. I know you’re supposed to think I’m beautiful, and I know I’m supposed to think so too, for now. Your mother probably had you believe that no girl really wants to have sex, and thus you think you have to talk her into it. You have to make her feel special. But see, I’m not your mother’s daughter. At least I hope not. Gross.
And what does it mean, beautiful? I guess a lot of girls are beautiful when it’s dark and their heads are all the way down there, aren’t they? Aren’t they all?
While you’re not talking, don’t ask me if I know how long you’ve wanted this. I don’t. And don’t ask me what I’m thinking. If I were thinking, there’s maybe a ten percent chance I would be here. Let me for once not think about what happened before this and what will happen next. Let me be in the moment. But if there’s a god, for his sake, do not say anything that includes the words “in the moment.”
Tell me I have great tits. Tell me you like the smell of sweat. These are small things that I can believe and I will believe them more if you show me, and believe me. All I want is to believe. Show me how you stroke your cock when you wake up in the morning and you have a little time. And show me how you like me and how you like me to to touch you and how much you want to touch me.
I’m saying: feed me cock. Not lies.
Because look, I won’t be mad if you never text me again. I’ll be mad — like crazy scorned hellcat mad — if you never text me after you, while you were getting me naked and hopefully wet, called me the best thing that’s happened to you all year. I’ll say, this is how you treat the best thing that’s happened to you all year? I’ll say, maybe my first clue should’ve been the word “thing.” Postscript: you’re a prick.
The less you promise now, the less you have to answer for later, basically; and anyway the best thing you can do with your mouth is kiss me. Everywhere. If you can kiss me and touch me at the same time: do that. Keep doing it. If you’re doing it right, you’ll hear me. For now, a little help: it helps if you don’t touch me like you’d touch a newborn or an orchid. Please, I eat; I’m not going to break. I don’t want to be handled with care. What care?
Don’t try to be good in bed. You’re not good in bed. We’re good in bed. Right, or we’re not, but let’s stay positive (not that kind of positive). We’re in this together. While it all happens you’re just a boy and I’m just a girl and we’ve been doing this since we were naked in gardens in some ancient sacral text.
If you read it in a magazine, don’t do it.
If your ex-girlfriend liked it, do it.
I don’t mean whip out all your kinks at once. Let’s have a little mystery. Let’s not do anything that could land us in emergency because, just a guess, you’re not going to be in love with “the moment” when that moment is “please state your relationship to the patient” on an official form. Besides, I don’t need you to be different when you’re already this whole new boy in my bed. If you can’t get off on just straight-up sweat-and-vanilla fucking, you should go get professional help, and I do mean that kind of pro.
As for me, I’m trying not to be a whore. I’m not doing this for love or affection or anything in exchange. I’m doing it for the only reason anyone should ever have sex, which is: I want to. All I want to feel is want. And, yes, wantedness and wantonness. All that.
Make me cum. Again: you’ll know. Orgasms are like the price of heels at Balenciaga. If you have to ask, get the fuck out.
After that, and only after that, you’ll cum too. I mean, I’m pretty sure you will. The odds are in your favor. Then you can collapse into me and close your eyes and breathe and if you have to, I mean if you really have to, you can say I’m beautiful and I won’t say I’m not.