I want this to feel like backalley sex, where every moan is vying for airspace with the screech of a cat, and the relentless hubbub of city washing by in waves of pedestrians and traffic. I want you to hear the wail of the siren hit on the offbeat before my hand connects on the on.
It’s the grime on my hands as they slip over your porcelain skin, marring the surface of it, smearing filth onto your thigh as I cut a swathe through your mind. Pay no attention to the soft light against the curtain; there’s nothing comforting about this room, not with me in it. I want you to feel like there’s graffiti on the duvet, rubbing paint off against your stomach.
You shouldn’t feel clean. Cleanliness is not for the likes of you, it’s not on the list of priorities. You’re dirty on the inside, and I’m going to make you feel unwashed on the out. Sweat and sex covering you in a sheen, until you’re too exhausted to do anything but calcify, too tired to think of anything but a shower. Too ashamed for anything but a soak.
This isn’t about tearing you down so you can build yourself back up. This is about peeling back the layers until there’s nothing left but you, shivering in a pile of yourself, all the scuffed shreds of your self construction a sprinkled halo on the ground. But you’re no angel, you dirty little thing.