Forced performance

by L. Cotts

Again, you buried yourself in a ‘half person’. You became aroused enough to thrust your penis into another human being, not to connect, not to part take in an act of pure passion where self control stands no chance, and not because you knew you were worthy of each other. Arousal struck you at your selfish core, she liked you, she was in a phase of considering your greatness, and you were proving to yourself that you were a ‘whole’ thing, that could be touched, admired, placed in another place that would eventuate to a physical state of pleasure. In the anticipated juncture ecstasy freed you from the benumbed existence you had chosen, and let it be known to you it was strong self-preservation but a choice, no less. While your nerve endings temporarily wriggled like worms in moist soil you forgot about pain, confusion, the haunting feeling of being lost in your own mind. You forgot about her, about everyone. If only that feeling of disembarrassment could have been sustained. And it is for the very fact your liberation left you almost immediately that the act of fucking her now runs through the space between cosmetic and damaging.

On top of a very high horse I say to you your affair, implicitly apish, may blossom a lesson; you do not waste fine china on small talk.

 


L. Cotts is a 21-year-old writer studying at the The University of Queensland.

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