by Smith S. Smith

She told him all about Harvey Milk; told him how homosexual teens have the highest suicide rates in America; told him how her cousin had been stuffed inside a gymnasium locker and whipped with towels until he bled when he had ‘came out’. These were topics he thought it was a bit weird to broach during intercourse, but the whole thing just went on for so-so-so-so-long that they had to talk about something, he guessed. Mostly he wouldn’t listen. He’d just go on, turning her over, this way or that. She’d never break a sentence for anything other than a coldly placed, “Wait. Okay. Right there. Good.” What did he care anyways? It was actually kind of refreshing to talk to someone, well… listen to someone, at least. He hadn’t talked to a soul since he’d been fired from the pants factory. Not a one unless you count that guy who asked him for directions to the L-train to whom he hadn’t responded. ‘Loneliness’ was not a ‘thing’ to him; he couldn’t understand it. Why did all these people, all crammed together, all busy and angry and hungry and constipated, why did they all have this desperate need for human contact? Hunan interaction? Couldn’t they just exist in their own little atmosphere? They were never really alone anyways. Who knew, he guessed.

She lit another candle while he worked on her from the top. The last one had melted down to the aluminum base, the wax splayed out, not unlike a Rorschach. He considered chapter seven as the new scent crept up his nostrils. Honey jasmine?
Calypso breeze? Tropical rhubarb? He couldn’t tell. But he did know he’d been using way too much punctuation. Way heavy on ellipsis…his favorite, way too much parenthetical commentary (so cliché), too many dashes—that got annoying, way, way way, too, many, commas, and last but not least, rampant use of the most evil punctuation mark ever: the exclamation point!

“And don’t even get me started on the sitch in Botswana,” she remarked as he turned her for a go at it doggy style. He serenely reviewed chapter seven in his head, not sure if it was his book or her vagina that was now keeping him hard. Ugh. He just couldn’t solve it. It was the forty-two-paragraph section about the doppelganger that concerned him most. Was the section too obviously figurative? Or wait, not subtly literal enough? He licked some perspiration from his upper lip. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Perhaps his brain had jostled around too much during this fuck. Maybe he should think about coming. Get this over with, he guessed. He moved her under him and got on top of her, not unlike an oilrig digging for fresh tar.

Illustration by Chad Kouri

“Oh,” she commented. Over their series of encounters she had come to realize that this meant he was nearly there. She shut her yap and concentrated, hoping to squeeze out one more orgasm. Damn that chapter seven. Maybe the problem was relativity. Chapters six and eight were so tight that it was difficult for anything to look good when sandwiched between them. “Tonight would be a seven revision night and that’s final,” he thought. Almost there. She came again. He came.

Rolling off of her, they both lay panting quietly. He turned to the nightstand and retrieved a cigarette. Pall Mall. His brand this month. He grabbed the candle and put the flame to the tip of his Pall, taking a long, slow pull from it. One more and he offered it to her. She was obliged to take three heavy drags.

“Well then… thanks. I’m off,” she said, sitting up and searching the floor for her white, cotton panties. There were no frills here. She found them entangled with her bra and got decent.

“You should really check out that documentary about the state of agricultural production in this country. Honestly, one of the most fucked up docs I’ve seen in a while. We’re living in a goddamn military-state if you ask me—between the republicans, the armed forces, the agricultural industry, ugh… don’t even get me started.”

He wouldn’t, but he almost felt certain she would leave his apartment talking to the wallpaper about it anyways. This bird was a little batty but she sure didn’t mind making intimate for three or four hours. She was no complainer in the bedroom. Well, not on the topic of the intercourse, at least.

Originally published March 2009 in the His & Hers issue of glasses glasses.