Dirt

I turned up to meet you at a bus-stop somewhere near your house. I'd been at some stifling obligation in a wine bar and had contacted you as a means of escape. So I traveled to the other side of London drunk as hell on a grimy strip-lit bus and I waited so long for you to turn up that I had to run off and piss behind a tree before you even got there. Of course when you appeared I wondered how I could have thought this was a good idea in my state. I bravely attempted something like coherent or intelligent conversation on the walk back to your flat. I'd brought some novelty with me as a gift that had been funny at the time but it looked so stupid in my hand whilst I was walking behind you that as soon as we arrived I hid it in a corner of your room. Shrinking perceptibly at my attempts at conversation, we both wondered why I'd come. You were adamant that you wouldn't fuck me without some kind of verbal foreplay but I was tongue-tied with nerves and alcohol and just curled up on the floorside of your single bed, eyelids shaking with the force of keeping them closed as you undressed angrily and lay beside me. During the night, loneliness or opportunism finally overshadowed your disgust and I felt your arm like a dead weight falling over my ribcage. You were impressively cold, nothing I did engaged you. When I touched your face you threw my hand back and then fucked me like you hated yourself. In the white morning light I was appalled by my nakedness and left quickly whilst you were sleeping. My lips were stained with wine and there were crescents of black dirt under my nails; I was sure the streetcleaners and early commuters thought I was a hooker. But still, on the top deck alone riding back to my safe house my heart kept skipping with adrenaline. I remembered turning to face you in the middle of the night and feeling your angry cock pushing against me. Dirt is sexy.