sometimes it is better not to have it.

this is fiction intertwined with fantasized reality

arousal is demanded

this is hair-pulling rough sex

pressed up & reflected back from

against the mirror

this is the night I learned that

love during sex

was a lie.

I don’t know much about the precursor steps to this affair. Most men forget the foreground to foreplay as often as they forget the foreplay. I do remember deep kisses & the clawing. Tilted her chin back to tongue and kiss behind her ear. Deft hands moved underneath clothes tearing garment from body.

Like any good many I rose to the occasion, but these neuroleptics acted more like ecstasy than the bipolar meds they were prescribed as.

I forced her hands back behind her, and she knew I was fuelled for a fuck. She looked back, almost hatefully, baring her teeth, coercing me to penetrate her. Pushing inside her, eyes rolled back to close. Like being injected with heroine – this was her drug, not me.

Putting myself back in this place leaves the taste of bile in my throat.

Her breaths and hushed moans between whispered demands for me to hurt her, desperately deceiving me fro the truth – in her youth she had been raped & molested. Some “damaged goods” complex needed misery to ebb the tides of her lust.

Muted grey light shone in through the window. Shadows of succubus & dreamer danced upon the wall. Demonic war was being waged, and no lyricist I had ever heard had warned me of this. This night should have never been, as with many others like it. Giving in to lust with her and the others has had a lasting affect on what kind of lover I can now be. She stole me from myself, and some things can never be reclaimed.