I was in a seven-year relationship that started when we were 18. Imagine. We lived alone together and fucked constantly, like children who'd discovered candy. It was sweet and pleasurable, and we stuffed ourselves with it till we couldn't move.
The beginning was hot. I mean, we lived in an attic and it was hot. But no matter what the season sweaty sheets, slick, sliding skin, steamy attic window looking out over snow our romantic candles melted unlit, and chocolate was like cool butter smoothed over swollen skin, Oh yeah, we were hungry, and it was hot.
The second year followed the first. We would throw on dirty clothes and run out to find food between sessions. Big food, sexy food: ice cream and extra-everything pizza, hot wings and mango juice. Fat vegetarian lasagna and coffee, slabs of cake, cream-puff eclairs, berries, cherries, red wine and chunks of Cadbury Fruit and Nut melted over peanut butter on toast. We kept cutlery by the bedside spoon against soft, fork tines forcing flesh, butter knife misted over with breath. Ummm, food.
The third year was best. A hundred positions, and still more. I know I like that, try this, over here, touch it, taste, slap it, squeeze, use this, a little harder, oh yeah, breath. Sometimes the experiments wouldn't work like we'd planned. One time we broke the bed. Another time someone called the cops.
Once I came 17 times, and another, he went numb. We put a hole in the wall, we chafed skin. Clothes were ripped, he had a rug burn on his chin! We were fucking everywhere: under a bed at Ikea, High Park in the rain, a GO Train, in a tree behind a church, in a ditch beside the road. The worst time we got caught, I had to run from an old woman with good aim and a hard cane, run with my underwear around my ankles. He didn't get away cuz he was laughing too hard. Son of a gun.
The fourth year I got pregnant. I was sick. I didn't know what to do. I was sick and I was only 22. How could that child get with child? Easy, just come good and hard right in the middle of the horniest day of the month. Easy the pleasure, but a little less fun the plain hard fact of consequence. And in the midst of that sickly slopping nausea, when I couldn't even get out of bed, we did it and did it and did it again. I was full of juice, he was bursting with seed. Then the baby was gone, all that was left was sadness and guilt, and we stopped for a while.
By the fifth year we'd made up a sexy little routine that worked every time. Everybody's mouth was sated, everybody's fingers were snug, every part got what was good but less than naughty. Still, it worked. We figured out the formula, we stuck with the favourites until even the good became flat and boring and trite. He stopped kissing me, but we still snuggled tight. I slept with someone else for the kissing. We were married, all right.
I think the sixth year we knew what was coming. We tried to start it up again: the old verve, the curious cock, the kinky cunt. Domesticated. I guess once you've been there, going back to see the sights holds as much fun as the old postcard on the fridge glanced at in the dead of night.
Hah. And the seventh. We hardly did a thing. But when we did, we fucked with fury, we fucked with hate, with the taste of "I dug this fucking hole and now I'm gonna fill it." Empty empty empty sex, hungry for what there was, because, of course, we remembered the good times glossed and golden and perfect. That was hot, and this this is cold, this is bitter, this is without purpose, old, without pleasure, without pain. Empty empty empty. We didn't look each other in the eye. It was over. We'd had enough. Stuffed ourselves till it was empty.
Can you imagine? And now, here I am. I've been celibate for a year, almost to the day, and I'm wondering what comes next.