Let’s go back to your place.
I want to whisper awful secrets in your ear. It’s late, and there are terrible things we can only think of in the dark.
Rolling in the Dust
© Copyright 2011
We didn’t wait very long after we got through my door. She was on me so quick I almost couldn’t get the deadbolt latched. Then I felt her leg lifting up and slithering around mine, and suddenly I was the one tearing into her. I grab at her wrists, hold them firmly against the back of my waist. She pulls, I follow.
We kissed like our lips were fused, our tongues beating against themselves, our mouths sucking on each other’s warm moisture. We didn’t really breathe, just shared air.
That red dress of hers was hiking over her hips, and I crushed her against the wall when I felt the lace of her underwear against my fingers. She started holding me real firm then, her fingers pulling the thick curls of my hair, like she didn’t trust where I might kiss her next.
As much as it seemed like she wanted me, it felt more like she needed me to want her.
We almost made it to the bed. Almost.
The carpet was soft enough, even though it’s really only in stories when people do it on the floor. She wouldn’t let me up; her legs were the most pleasant shackles you’d ever find.
The dress came off slowly, in little hitches, until it was over her head. It never really came off, now that I think about it, just hung off one of her arms for the rest of the night.
Until there wasn’t anything to hold onto.
The feeling is so crazy I don’t know when I’m coming or if I’m going. I just feel her move, her skin almost hot enough to burn me.
She’s so smooth, all over. Kissing her skin is like tonguing satin. Her shoulders almost gleam in the light of the bedside clock. Her hair is a constant, night-dark black, unbroken, unbothered.
She’s moaning constantly, louder and louder but never, weirdly, too loud. It wavers out of her, like heat from a flame. It burns me alive. For a little bit I think I can feel steam between us, but maybe that’s just the blood rushing through me at breakneck pace.
She doesn’t give me time to take my clothes off all the way. Even when we finish the first time, she just holds me tight, tells me to stay on top. She wants to feel me breathing in her ear.
She says it cools her off. She says her hot flashes can be a bitch.
Her lips feel a little tougher, firmer. I feel lines on the curves of her shoulders, grooves with my tongue.
She’s just as energetic, more even. She’s eager to get something, give something. But it seems to take a lot out of her. She’s grunts with effort as she pulls and pushes me. She kicks off her heels, and her feet feel rough against the back of my legs.
She’s breathing really heavy when we’re done. She says she hasn’t felt this way since she was a girl.
We go again, starting even quicker than last time. We’re not getting any younger.
She’s dying. We all are, but her a lot faster than others.
Doctors say if she takes it easy, doesn’t exert herself too much, she’ll have lots of long years ahead of her. She says it sounded an awful lot like they were prescribing dying to live.
When she pulls me in it’s with an almost amgry determination she hasn’t shown before. There’s something she needs. Not taken from me, taken from her.
She has to work harder at it now. When she moves it’s with an effort from her whole body, I feel her tense up. Her legs don’t hold me as tightly as they did before. The nails she digs into my back feel brittle, kind of jagged.
The streetlight coming through my window brings out the streak of gray in her hair.
She doesn’t want to move to the bed, but her back hurts. The floor is not good for her.
I pull some pillows down and she arranges them under her. When we’re done she reaches up, pulls down a blanket. She’s cold.
She asks for me to show some pace. She slept for a little while, and she seems to be getting tired.
I slow down, look in her squinting eyes and ask her if she wants to stop. She says no, never, deeper, slower.
Her lips are lined with small, deep furrows. Her arms don’t wrap as far around me. Her legs tell me I can go whenever I want.
But she says to stay. Don’t leave an old woman alone in the dark.
She’s gasping. Mostly, I think, fighting for air.
Her heartbeat races, her legs ache. She pauses halfway through, tells me she needs to catch her breath.
But we’re back at it soon enough. She doesn’t have the strength to pull me anymore, but she whispers in my ear:
Go, go, go, take me with you.
She gives a last, electrifying burst.
It feels like she is running away, pulling me overhead for cover. She rocks me back and forth. Her knees strain but she locks me in, and I feel her body writhe with me.
She is grunting and panting, but soon we’re spent, and we become very quiet. Our breathing slows, slows, stills.
I pass out just as gray begins to tickle the black sky. Draped across her, I sink into her soft skin. It feels cool, yielding. Unresisting.
In the night I have a sudden sensation of falling, of something giving out from under me. The feeling startles me awake, but I am hollowed out, and easily go back to sleep.
The morning light shoots me in the eye, and I wince, crying out in irritation and yelling obscenities. I am quite unlovable in the morning. I bet she wouldn’t have been.
I look over to see her, but find only her dress. I’m lying in a pile of dust. Buried in the mound are the panties she never took off, just moved to the side.
Strands of her silvery hair are stuck in my carpet, and they shine like metal in the sunlight. Beside them are hairs black as night, momentos of a youth spent too slowly.