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It's Only Sex
It's only sex, what we have; mindless, orgasmic, throw back your head and call out to Jesus, sex. Her fingers in my hair, mine grasping at her ass, the rhythm of my tongue, the chorus of her breathing. Fucking to block out the world. Fucking so we don't have to talk. Fucking because we're scared shitless that if we stop we'll realise that we actually like each other. Shit, maybe even love each other, and that wouldn't be part of the plan.
The plan. What's expected. Our roles in this fucked up world. They're all the same; I lust after a man incapable of returning my feelings, and she comes in to steal what little affection he can muster. A love triangle straight out of some saccharine sweet romance novel. Only I ended up naked and sweaty with her, not him, and it's my name she calls out during orgasm, right before she flips me on my back and takes eager possession of my body.
I've seen the looks, the pity, that I evoke every time I snub her for talking to him. The caustic looks she returns before cornering me alone in an office or bathroom stall and devouring my body in a burst of lust. My hands sweating and voice rough as we pass in the corridors, my body still sore from our last tryst but begging for the next and the next and the next.
The quiet moments, our heartbeats slowing, and sweat cooling along the sheets. Her hand cradling my shoulders and breath tickling across my chest, as we let ourselves bask in the rightness of the moment, before banishing our true desires to an empty bed and half grunted farewells.
'I love you' transformed into 'I want you', 'fuck me' replacing 'love me'. The truth hidden behind the easy lie; it's only sex.
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