Friday, May 06, 2005

Short Lived

I fucked Cuisiniere last night. Sadly, it didn't involve drunken fumbling nor blank recollections. It was pre-meditated on his part and though I resisted, his unresponsiveness did little but deter me from struggling for long.

"You want to have sex?" I asked to confirm, an exercise of repetition.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, eagerly.

I rolled my eyes, re-affirming the notion that I was playing hearts with best friends. I pinned his arms over his head:

"You have a condom?"

He nodded. Thus, began his journey through slippery territory.

He and I posed mannequin legs around town that morning after my film class, titling each piece with names like, "Cultured Cunt" (which featured the plastic limbs leaning on a bookshelf with the Vagina Monologues set between its thighs), "Mail Cunt," (get it?) and "Soiled Cunt" (in a flower bed).

I woke up at 7 a.m., four hours after we left the party with friends, determined to slip out of his apartment unnoticed. As I shivered towards the metro, I checked the recently dialled list on my phone and discovered Cuisiniere had called M. Biologique a mere hour before we hooked up.

What hasn't been deemed a misguided judgment this year?


I'm so sore, I can barely walk.

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