EP

We were young. 16. My parents were too conservative to ever leave me alone with him. So while I was suppose to be shelving books at the library, we sneaked away into our own little private world. Hopping over barbed wire, dodging between leaf crowned trees, we lay on the springy whispering grass, using our clothes to protect our vulnerable skin. In a sunny, stranger’s fields, we stripped ourselves bare and explored each other. Lands that had previously been undiscovered were exposed and connected in new ways. Each curve was a landmark; celebrated and cherished with kisses and hungry strokes. The sound of drowsy cicadas mingled with our shuddering breaths and lyrical moans, creating a melody as sweet as the movements we were making.

At the time, it didn’t matter that he was having sex with me in an attempt to get over his ex. It didn’t matter that I was in love with someone who was emotionally unavailable, someone who would cause showers of tears to fall from my eyes.

All that mattered was the rising and falling of our chests;  melting into each other under the burning, cleansing sun.

(reader submission)

It had been 1 year, 6 months, and 27 days since we broke up. But most importantly, it had been 1 year, 4 months, and 13 days since we had last made love. Back then it wasn’t just making love-no, it was exploring and finding and giving love. As I walked up his front steps, I expected no more than two old friends catching up. I was a mess per usual, evidence of my 8 hour workday in my tired eyes and messy bun. But he didn’t care, no, he never had. I found him in the bedroom, greeted by his dimples and hungry eyes. It started with a hug, a seemingly casual hug between friends. A hug turned into a caress, a stroke, a grope. My jacket, his floor. His shirt, discarded hastily. As I collapsed onto his bed with the mumbled pretense of exhaustion, I knew I wanted him. He knew, too, and I felt myself melt underneath him and his fingertips grazing my stomach. We remained silent. After months of fighting followed by months of silence ending in months of a careful friendship, we knew better than to open our mouths- for words to come out of, anyway.  Somehow I found myself on top of him, reaching until I found the appendage I knew so well. Somehow his hands found my skirt, and my skirt found the floor. I pressed myself against him and felt his bulge against me. The intensity in which I felt this familiar desire for him possessed me so that I could not speak, and I felt the overwhelming urge to cry. He touched me with careful deliberateness, tracing every curve on his way down. Down, down, down, as my eyes rolled and I inhaled sharply. Longing. Longing for so long, culminating in this one night. In a bed I knew well, with a man I knew well, I came. He came, and I came again. At 3 am, I hastily grabbed my clothes and walked down, down, down the steps. I felt no regret, as the lust was instinctual by this point and there was no point in shame. Yet, I felt dirty. As though we broke some terrible rule, or went somewhere we knew we should never go. I felt empty, though my voracious appetite was filled only moments ago. It had been 7 minutes and 48 seconds since we had last made love,no- fucked, but I knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

(reader submission)

“Just wanna see ya, just wanna feel ya.” Those are the words that made me go to a church parking lot in the middle of the night. At nineteen, I snuck out of my house for the first time to meet the most reoccurring ex-boyfriend in the world. He kissed me as soon as he drove up. We progressed rather slowly, though I tried to start quickly. He asked as I tried to unbutton his pants, “How do you know that’s what I want? How do you know I don’t just want to talk?” I told him very matter-of-factly that I knew that because he never just wanted to talk to me. It didn’t matter, though. I was there in that church parking lot because I was just as lonely as he was. I was in that church parking lot because where else will anyone touch me? We had our way with each other. I scratched and bit, he fucked me against his car. I kissed his chest, he grabbed my ass. We both tasted like sweat and saliva. He didn’t cum in me like he normally does. He kissed me before driving off, after offering to drive me home. I declined, because I felt like crying. I often feel like crying after sex, especially sex that gives me concrete burn. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy myself, that I didn’t want it as much as he did. I just hate that I can always fool myself into thinking this isn’t what he wants. “Don’t worry, it’s on my ass.”

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