HOT PINK
Tonight, our fucking is slow. I’m on top for most of it. My hair forms a
curtain around his face. His empath’s hands are guided by the obscurity
of my desire, grazing my back and nipples, brushing against my torso, the
o of his mouth and incisors taking one nipple in and out, then the other
as I slowly angle my cunt to swallow his cock and pause. This pause is
drives me wild. I can feel his fullness expand both physically and
energetically inside me even as he sleeps. Even as he is elsewhere. Slow
vibrational waves seep into my vaginal walls and radiate out to my clit,
spilling outward onto the sheets: hot pink. A few years ago, when I was
between Brooklyn and Oakland, Brenda wrote me, “All phenomena, all
time”. Now I understand that more than I wish to. The bed buzzes with the
sluff of our amalgamated then singular energy. When he pauses I don’t
cum, I crescendo. Our hot pink increases in volume but then deafens in
pitch to a terrible base note, the vocal fry of a dying animal. Is this a
voice? Is this my voice? Tonight, this is where we stay, somewhere
between animal and deity with little to no movement, Frank Ocean
playing in the antechambers. I take him in as deep and fully as possible,
feeling the kundalini radiate from where his cock was held snug between
my labial lips. The heat of electric pink radiates in loose waves from
where his cock is still held inside me, emanating out the center of me
like a gloriole as it’s illumination alchemizes with my skin, trickling
down through my parted labia, down his balls, and onto his asshole, hot
pink.