sexual healing
Her cough was deep and from the diaphragm. It boomed with a rattle in her chest.
In the vernacular of sex, she was on top. Her hands were on the pillow at either side of my head, supporting the weight of her upper body as she straddled my pelvis with her own. With a slight rocking from the knees, and with the counter balance of her arms, she thrust herself repeatedly onto me. Each forward motion would bring her breasts just above my face. With each backward motion, her long dark hair would tickle my eyes and nose. Every 15-20 seconds this carnal stroke cycle would stop, like a piston seizing in the cylinder, with her weight resting on her hips rather than her arms. Then she'd turn her head into her left shoulder to cover her mouth and cough. The muscles in her groin would contract, the rattle from her chest rippling through them in a shockwave. If she had done this while leaning forward, or if we had been attempting this in any other position, it would've caused an evacuation. She punctuated each cough with a raspy and sheepish "Sorry" then began moving again.
The social pleasantry of covering one's mouth when coughing or sneezing is presumably in the interest of public health. When this practice is being observed by someone to whom you've just paid an additional $150 for a bareback ride, it becomes a level of irony that few ever have the chance to witness.
* * *
The door latch clicked quietly as he left the room.
The would-be Greta Garbo stood by the window. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching dark sedans dart down Lexington Avenue below. The red numbers on the clock beside the hotel bed allowed her 15 minutes until her next arrival. She sighed, her warm breath fogging the street lights into sparkles.
Some day I'll get out of here.
She ran her finger through the condensation on the glass, creating a single, sliver of clarity through the fog. She thought of her little girl in Ohio and wondered if she was all right.
In the vernacular of sex, she was on top. Her hands were on the pillow at either side of my head, supporting the weight of her upper body as she straddled my pelvis with her own. With a slight rocking from the knees, and with the counter balance of her arms, she thrust herself repeatedly onto me. Each forward motion would bring her breasts just above my face. With each backward motion, her long dark hair would tickle my eyes and nose. Every 15-20 seconds this carnal stroke cycle would stop, like a piston seizing in the cylinder, with her weight resting on her hips rather than her arms. Then she'd turn her head into her left shoulder to cover her mouth and cough. The muscles in her groin would contract, the rattle from her chest rippling through them in a shockwave. If she had done this while leaning forward, or if we had been attempting this in any other position, it would've caused an evacuation. She punctuated each cough with a raspy and sheepish "Sorry" then began moving again.
The social pleasantry of covering one's mouth when coughing or sneezing is presumably in the interest of public health. When this practice is being observed by someone to whom you've just paid an additional $150 for a bareback ride, it becomes a level of irony that few ever have the chance to witness.
The door latch clicked quietly as he left the room.
The would-be Greta Garbo stood by the window. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching dark sedans dart down Lexington Avenue below. The red numbers on the clock beside the hotel bed allowed her 15 minutes until her next arrival. She sighed, her warm breath fogging the street lights into sparkles.
Some day I'll get out of here.
She ran her finger through the condensation on the glass, creating a single, sliver of clarity through the fog. She thought of her little girl in Ohio and wondered if she was all right.