by Anthony Beal
(12/19/01)
You'll have me at your mercy. You'll wear my ass out. You'll devour this rapier wit and smooth body kept tight by thousand-crunch days and sleepless nights.
You'll savage me...hurt me...work me over and under until I scream your name....
You'll pull my hair, you'll slice my triceps with your fingernails as I smear you with sweat and lips and moist, greedy palms.
I want it...all the tears, all the grappling, all the fevered, straining groans, all the name-calling and bellicose twists of hip and knife as only you can administer them. Feed me all the rage and symphony that comprise you. You show me yours again, I'll show you mine as always.
You'll press fishhooks against my eyelids and tell me about your ex-boyfriend again: the one with the cock like a summer bratwurst, the only cock that could ever fuck you to tears. You'll lay ice cubes upon my scrotum as punishment for my coming too soon and warn me against making a sound. You'll tell me that after an hour, if I've been an obedient puppy, you might fuck me again. When I start to weep, my tears will scald my pupils, and I will cry with self-loathing. I will cry with joy at the chance to redeem myself in your eyes.
Later, in the shower with you, I'll beg you, "Stay with me 'til morning," the way I always do after you've hurt me as only you can. The instant I begin speaking, your face will fold into that smirking sneer I find so damn irresistible, and I'll know before my sentence is complete that you will decline. I'll remind myself that we're not in love as I turn off the water, wrap you in towels, and carry you to where your clothes are piled. Watching you shrug into three shades of purple and two of black, I will lie down and die a little bit, pretending that I was your first and greatest lover ever.
