Sexy Numbers

Unable to create without some conceptual framework, I centered my counts around sex. The numbers were picked appropriately. 2: you need at least two people, 5: number of books Ovid wrote on Love, 6: Sounds like sex, 14: Valentine's Day, 69: Obvious, 157: Number of sonnets in Shakespeare's sequence.

2. Almost hurts.

5. First do this. Now, harder. or First, like this. Now, switch.

6. Fuck "stir", I want it shaken.

14. Sweat smears and slips, wet thighs dip and quiver. The flesh grinds, then simmers.

69. Love. That hot, hateful bitch. It grabbed me by the balls, then pulled. Hard. Cupid shoots thorny arrows, not harmless roses. And he's blind, the fucker. (But he pays good money -- or so I thought.) I sucked and fucked. I opened up, I swallowed. I dropped, and gagged, and got stuck. It's just not love anymore if all you do is pant and grunt like an animal.

157. Pleasure is a slow descent, punctuated by awkward removals and unsure insertions: his fingers fumble as they unhook her bra, their stomachs tap tap -- warm and sticky -- to the quickening rhythm of their breathing, tangy fluid smells emanate from the sheets when they are both naked and ready. It is just sex but it means so much more to them, just then.

Desire is a physical force that wrenches at your gut, blinds you with want, and inflames you nerves like the fuses of a firework: the curve of a firm, well formed ass; black lace over shaded skin, taunt with temptation; the brush of a finely haired arm, haloed in gold in the morning light. Simple instinct, pure need.

Longing is a memory in flesh, a boiling in the blood, a numbing erection that holds you awake in pain: a pounding, tightening necessity to have and feel, to rise and fall -- then expiate onto the sheets.