I’ve only had movie sex once.
The kind I watched on TV as a kid.
Seamless Cinemax sex.
Posed limbs, sweating breaths and whispers.
Our bodies moved in sweeping motions.
Writhing. Eyes to the ceiling.
You coming off on me like new paint.
We said sexy types of things
like, “yes, do it to me, baby,” and
“you feel so good.” But we spoke
these words like lines read,
printed in black-ink serif-fonts,
from chunky white cards
held above our heads.
We were in your childhood bedroom,
but we were new adults.
You steadied yourself against wood-paneled walls.
Laminate, I thought, from the give beneath your hand.
Afterwards, we searched for each other’s underwear
in strawberry sheets. We laughed at nothing
until our heads throbbed.
Your marble eyes empty of everything but me.
And when you draped your legs over me
like a roller coaster harness, for the last time,
I felt brave enough to not hold on.