line of fucking
No two fuckthoughts are alike.
Sometimes while he fucks me, his breath on the back of my neck, my mind will wander. He’ll let it wander. He undoes its leash as he grips my hands, assuring me it’ll come back with every thrust. With each tremor every stroke another idea stitches itself together. A landscape takes shape, from under sweat and groans the realization that this is where creativity comes. Paint a picture and watch it replaced with every blink. Flashes of color echoing our rise and fall. A deck of cards shuffle and manipulated at lightening speed. Realize what that metaphor you’ve been agonizing over should be. Remember the way he smiled earlier that day. Or think about writing this poem and one of your gasps becomes a sigh of lament that you can’t reach for a pen and pad and start scribbling.
That’s the moment when I just let him fuck me, when I let him pull my hands behind my back as I close my eyes. The safety of sinking. Thoughts crave the same touch as skin. Somehow his fingers stirred every crevice and sulci I had. Twist me back around lock eyes and all of a sudden there’s not much I can think of other than the feel of every inch of skin. Some of the best thoughts come while you’re fucking.
Some of them fuck off while you come. If only you were allowed to scratch novels onto lovers backs, spend post coitus transcribing.
No, better to kill the letters as they come.
Marina Manoukian never knows what to say about herself. She is currently working towards a Masters in English Philology at Freie Universität Berlin and in her spare time she continues to read and write with some occasional collaging. You can find more of her work on her website and follow her on Twitter.
Featured Image by Jona Fine.
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