Page 50 of Way Down Deep

11.59pm

Are you there? Maya?

I’m still here. Just.

Me too. In a sweaty, undignified heap with my pants still half off, but I’m here.

Ilooklike I’ve been destroyed by a sex hurricane. Somehow my underwear is on the dressing table—though I don’t remember hurling it. Maybe the ghost of you did it.

Never stop looking exactlylike that.

Fuck.

Sorry, I swear so much. Though it’s your fault, really. But FUCK.

Ilove your swearing. I want to marry your swearing. Your swearing and me are going to run away together to a fantasy world.

You and your fantasy worlds.

There’s so much I want to teach you about sex. Real sex—not just the hot things. Like, I want to show you how some of the sexy shit people get up to in movies is so fucking stupid. Like how fucking in the shower is completely impossible, not unless you enjoy slipping and hitting your head on the edge of the tub, or taking turns being the one scalded by the tap or standing there on the other end all wet and shivering.

And how anything involving food is the fucking worst. Like how you’ll have to sleep on your bare mattress that night if you don’t want to lay on a souring, sticky puddle of whipped cream.

That’s the shit that pops into my head sometimes when we talk, all this ridiculous, anti-sexy stuff, but it feels so intimate to me. All the stuff that fails. Maybe because it’d be so easy just to keep on saying only the cinematic stuff. Easy and obvious.

Doyou honestly think that’s anti-sexy? To share things like that with me? I live in fantasy. That’s all I have. So far, fantasy is really all we’ve had. And it’s lovely and awesome and safe—it’s made me feel very safe. But it’s done the opposite of what reality usually does. I imagine it dampens things for most people.

For me, it’s a raw and ridiculous thrill. I’m almost craving those mistakes. The frantic fumblings and fucked-up things we could dream up together. And I shiver over you saying them all to me, telling me how it would really be.

So go on, go on. Share with me how it really feels.

Tonight, everything we did, everything we said… It was perfect, worthy of that movie that doesn’t exist. But if it were all real, if you and I were actually real…

Maybe three days from now, I’m going to go down on you for forty-five minutes, until my jaw’s aching and my left arm’s gone numb. You’re going to start panicking because you haven’t come yet. Then you’ll get close, so close, only you’ll get a charley horse right before you get there, and you’ll just about fall off the bed, it hurts so bad.

Three weeks from now, we’ll be fucking for ages. You’ve come already, maybe twice, three times. And now it’s me who’s close. But I really, really need to pee. But I’m so close, and so stubborn. But eventually I’ll shout, “Fuck!” and I’ll limp out of the room to piss so I can fucking finish already, because that’s how sex looks, sometimes.

Three months from now, one of us will fart in the middle of it all, and we’ll die a little inside and pretend like it didn’t happen.

Three years from now, we’ll fart in the middle of it and not think twice. And I can’t fucking wait, because I’ve never gotten there with anyone. I’ve never been that comfortable. But I know I could be, with you.

Inever thoughtI’d say that not thinking about farts sounds like heaven, but it does. All of that does. You make even my silliest fears seem like sexy things I should want.

I want those years with you. Those messy, so real years.

If we were togetherfor real … you and me, on that couch the way we started tonight…

As much as I’d want to race to all the predictable places, I almost want to take those hands, move them away. I want to fall back and drag you down with me, just feel the weight of you on top of me, wrap my arms around you and sigh or laugh or fucking cry, I couldn’t even guess which. I want to ignore my dick and just let that impatience simmer inside me. Listen to you breathing, listen to whatever’s happening at this point in Blade Runner, and when the DVD ends, listen to the radiator ticking and the rain hitting the window.

That doesn’t seemstrange to me. It seems lovely—just to lie there with you, maybe feel your heart beating against the side of my face and smell whatever you smell like and know that you want it, you want me, but at the same time that you need something else too. I’m the one who was racing ahead to sex. You’re the one who wants to slow down and savour.

I can’t deny there’s something sweet about that.

Fuck, Maya…

There’s something I want to say to you.

But I can’t. Not quite.

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