Sex Kills

Zanzibar, Terre Chartrand

I sat naked, cross-legged on the floor. The room was dark; I could barely see her face in the candle-flickering light. The air was thick and sweaty – weed-dank and mist-smoked.

I picked up my pipe and sucked hard, deeply inhaling the green packed tightly in the bowl. The smoke traveled through my body – my blood, my veins, my pores, my everything – and then out of my mouth and into hers in a thin, cloudy stream of desire and passion.

“Sex Kills” is on the stereo, floating in and out of my consciousness like a dream. The girl stood up, reached for my hand, and pulled me up onto the bed.

And the gas leaks; the oil spills…

hot. sex. sweat. fuck. fingers. back. hands. lips. hips. tongue. hard. soft. passion. top. bottom. curves. love. rough. slow. wet. fast. silent. loud. moan. turn. back. front. touch. hold. slower. softer. faster. harder.

We fall away from each other. I roll one way and she rolls another – sweaty and panting. Coming down. She gets up and goes to the fridge, takes out two beers. I’ve already lit up two cigarettes.

The gas leaks, the oil spills; sex sells everything.
And sex kills.

And I think to myself: what a wonderful world.

November 30, 2007 Blueprint Web Administrator No Comments

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