Every time we fuck I feel like I should mark it on a calendar. Will this be the last time? Does she mark the passing like I do, with cravings and despair? So rare now that I get to look let alone touch. I once thrived on those moments, the little glimpses, fleet contact, flashes of flesh. Such small tendernesses sustained me for so long. I don’t know how to dine with any other, how to accomodate new etiquettes and tastes, how to satisfy strange urges, but I’m so famished now and life goes by too quick to fast.
He looks at me with an almost destitute seriousness and sighs longer than lungs have a right. ‘I want to fuck them all,’ he says, almost aquiver. ‘I can’t help it.’ Tense to the point of pain. ‘It’s killing me. It’s destroying me. I can’t see them as people anymore. I can’t see people, just fuck things and the rotting blackness inside me.’ And after, I ask, when you’ve fucked a thing? ‘Nothing,’ he says, ‘beautiful nothing for long enough to notice, then horrors again.’ He closes his eyes and looks at something I’ll never see. ‘I feel monstrous.’