Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: sex

Etemenanki

Today, I told someone that I love her (in a language she barely understands) in a park, in a slightly shaky voice because I hadn’t thought it out as well as I’d hoped. And she said that she loves me (in a language I have mostly forgotten), in a whisper in my ear. Surely there were other languages around us that day.

(in the bugs that kept crawling over us, between their bug pheromones)

(in the electricity between us, between nerve clusters on the surface and deeper down)

(in the stilted, blushing manner of whoever filed that public indecency charge)

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Dream Journal Entry #6

I fall asleep to nature shows, my childhood kryptonite. I would be treated to Attenborough, my parents would go upstairs for alone-time; I can’t believe it took me fifteen years to understand that ritual. I dream of walking in on my parents having sex. My mother twists her neck to look at me. My father is pumping and unbothered. They make small cricket chirps, and I’m seeing this all from the height of a 4-year-old – most of the action is obscured when I’m close enough to the bed, thankfully. Then my mother bites Dad’s head off with her giant mandibles.

Dream Journal Entry #5

The sex dreams, I never have. If a dream stays with you long enough, it transmutes into some weird memory that no-one else remembers. There is biting, thrashing, scratching, growling. I kiss, and you kiss back. You whisper, “You may do whatever you feel like,” and for days that echoes in my skull. Things aren’t real unless they can touch me (and I touch back); so why can’t you touch me? You mustn’t be real. I’ve done this before; I’ve never done this before. You’re not a dream. You must have happened. We had twenty-four hours like an action movie.

A Scholarship

A scholarship. A good time. Slight friction. The vast expanse of sky. Names of stars, drinking games. You forget his name. Last call. One planet, veering out of its orbit, crashing into another planet. More good times. Blood on the bedsheets. A conversation best had sober, easiest had drunk. Somewhere in the between. An unanswered question. The going-through of the evidence with telescopes, the plotting of vectors in the sky. Vodka. A shiver. He wasn’t going to say anything. You were the one who–

Electricity. One last look at those blackened sheets. A garbage chute. An envelope; a scholarship.

Acceptance.

Le petit jour du jugement

We both scream for God. In French, they call it le petit jour du jugement because of the striking similarities: there is the shortness of breath, and the blood singing in our veins. The quivering and the involuntary throat sounds from deep deep down, and the blinding white pillar of light from heaven that purges the countryside around us. We gasp. We huddle in the bed, narrowly avoiding the wet spot, reaching for the radio by the bedside to find out that the bodycount has reached the thousands. It fans outward from the place where you and I made love.

Of Course

I open my eyes to find my bedroom covered in newspaper clippings. Two balls of yarn have been slaughtered during the course of the night, their entrails decorate the walls now. Where did you get all these newspapers? You’re naked, still naked (and so gorgeous). I make a joke, you don’t react. I put a hand to your head and ask: did you get any sleep? Is this about what I said last night? First you shake your head, then you nod it. I don’t think I’ve seen your eyes this big before. “You really love me,” you say, helplessly.

Knossos, Crete

Annelie’s cunt was a labyrinth and she didn’t know how to respond when guys told her they couldn’t figure her out. She felt she was a straightforward person.

Sometimes, Annelie would time them, but it turned out that ”three hours, 15 minutes” wasn’t the right way to respond either. There was no monster at the heart of the labyrinth, but they all acted like it. They all acted like she was the labyrinth, like her emotions were as mazelike.

The solution, obvious in hindsight, was a woman named Liz. Her fingers were deft, and she was not prone to metaphor.

Touchdown Gently

You come from the sky in a shining ball of gold; you touchdown gently in my corn fields and draw strange crop circles and my eyes roll back in ecstasy. I try to contact you but you speak in maths and I don’t understand, and I tell all my friends and none of them believe me and all of them laugh, but it’s true, I remember you cloudlessly. I stay out late in other people’s fields just waiting, and the other people can tell I’m not really there, my eyes are fixed to the sky. Most of them don’t care.

Not Even You

Nobody sleeps with the first one they kiss, it’s a rule. It’s either too early or too late. Your first kiss never leads to your first lay, if only for the fact that they are not the same person anymore by the time you reach the part where you unzip your denim jeans and wiggle out of your clothes. And you can see it in their eyes then as they look at you with that questioning look because they don’t want to outright ask. Afterward, in all likelihood, they return to the same person they were before, and they leave.

Did You Write about Me?

You broke a rule and it sounded like a twig snapped. You say you’ve forgotten that night when it rained and we could still see the stars, yet a smile flashes across your face when I tell you March 23rd, 2008. I suppose it was March 24th, by then, but you’ve forgotten the wet grass and how you put your cold hands down my warm pants. And if I paint you a slow picture, you remember but you can’t say if I cried before, or after, or what you thought. And your lip twitches. You should have that looked at.