I want to shed the lint of permanent lovers and remember that there is only one permanent lover, the last. Walking, I think, will help.

I walk everywhere, now. Everything I wear is loose below the waist. I rest on the space between my thighs. I constantly liken the heat inside to the heat around. Me. I’ve become a mental contortionist; I look at the world from between my legs. It swells, around the edges. I swell with it. I’m easy, if it looks like it might be hard. I fall in love with everyone I fuck, and I fuck everyone who looks back.

When I look in their eyes I see their dicks.

And what moves their dicks.

I consider the shape their friction will engrave into me. I think about the pattern of their energy rippling through my material. By then, I am humming.

If they look back, if I don’t look away, I am bound to find out what it will feel like when they feel me, how they will taste when I swallow them.

The butcher. The baker. The candlestick maker. The...

I feel like God, wanting every single Me, falling so deeply in love with my creation that I must be in and around each member of it, and know the exhilaration of their experience.

Each one tells me something different, something I need to know, but didn’t, before him. I will remember the names of each, the shape of each statement, the circumstances of the period. I will recite them to my final lover, weave the dimensions around him. He will become each of them, avatars of every facet of my slick, crimson spirit.

I am right. It helps.

Text & Graphics © 2001 by Gail Rae Hudson

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