Splat

(A Memory)

I once ‘dated’ a guy who wanted me to spit on him. I was 21, young, drunk, hungry for more. So, I did it. Mid-sex, splat, right on his back. It sunk through that patch of hair right at his crack. Spreading thin as it settled along his spine. Splat.

Then there was a gentleman I went home with wasted, plastered, sauced. Both of us. My sloppy brain told me I was gonna regret it in the morning. Sure thing, I did. I didn’t even look at him. I drove him to his car and never looked to my right. I don’t even know the details of his face. Just the blur from the night before.

Or there was Carl, desperately, aggressively wanting to penetrate me. I teased him with the thought. Poor boy never got a chance. Didn’t even see the sever coming. I toyed with the idea of him inside me for a few nights, then lost his number.