Disheveled.
Sometimes, some words stick. I mean, I know this word. Never used it in a conversation but yeah, I know it. And one morning, while I’m still trying to run the sleep out of my eyes, it comes to me. Maybe I dreamt of something, I don’t know. And it sticks, and it doesn’t go away. One day, two days, a week. It stays in my mind.
Is it because that’s how our life is? It’s not perfect, it’s not a straight line, it’s not a jog around the park. It’s messy, and untidy and altogether so grown up.
And maybe, why it doesn’t go is because that’s how the sex is.
Tell me, if it’s more than one, but less than two, is it plural?
We’ve been sex-ing for decades, then. Not making love, for all of it. Not fucking, for lot of it. But sex-ing, yes.
Our bed is disheveled. It starts from there. When was the last time we had sex on a made-up bed? When the door of the suite opened up to our honeymoon bed, probably. You’re tidier, but I’m messy. Messy wins, most of the time. And the pillows won’t align. And the mattress is so heavy, we can’t tuck the bedsheets in. Disheveled bed.
Clothes. We look worse than some of the peons in our respective organizations, and we know it and we can’t be bothered to change. It’s become ridiculous, now. And we take those same clothes off, now. Or we don’t. Nowadays, we don’t even need naked.
I love crumpling your clothes. Squeezing your breasts through a top, a slip, a bra. And the clothes, they crumple. All ironing is lost. And our pants are down on the floor, always. I don’t know how, they never remain on the bed, do they? And shirts, they crumple.
I seem to be getting warmer. I really do feel so. Why did it stick? Disheveled?
My beard. Unkempt for a month. No time, no time. No desire. It mimics my hair, curls away at all places. Errant strings move out of place, a cacophony of chaos.
And I’m down between your legs, and my beard is disheveled. And so is your bush. Unkempt, grown. No time, no time, no time to shave. You or me.
Pussy juice, pussy juice. So sweet, it sticks, on a beard, so wet it drips. And spreads all around your pussy, and I drink. No, I lick. My tongues. One, many, each hair of mine. Been so long, no time, no time.
And I spread it on your breasts, as I slobber on them. Only to suck it all in again.
And your hair’s all spread out now, and it’s disheveled. It comes on your face and you slap it back and I bury my head in it when I’m on top, and it falls on me when you’re on top, and it doesn’t matter what parlour you’ve been to, because it’s all over now.
Isn’t it tidiest when I cum? You cum, I hope you do. You don’t squirt. When I cum in you, it’s tidy. Nothing leaks out, usually. When you swallow, it’s tidier. Inside the condom, tidy. Neat little endings, bar the sweat. Lick, lick.
And as I wake to more happy mornings daily, now I know why it sticks. Disheveled, our life, my cock, your pussy, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Love.