Pen Pal

by J.T. Geissinger

The wet clump of dirt makes an ugly hollow sound when it lands on the gray lid of the coffin, an uncaring splat of finality. Then it slides off, leaving a smear of brown behind like a shit stain.

“Even small dragons can still breathe fire.”

That non-kiss was electric.

“My plan is to get you naked and find out how you sound when you come.”

“I don’t want you drunk, though. I want you to remember everything so you come back for more.”

He’s bizarrely self-confident, but I have to admit, he’s not cocky. There’s no arrogance in the way he speaks. It’s as if he’s simply stating facts, then letting me decide how I want to react to them. I don’t know if his straightforwardness is refreshing or weird.

“I want those eyes open when you come for me.”

“Because conversations like this don’t happen in real life.” “Just because you haven’t had them before doesn’t mean they don’t happen.”

“Then you don’t know what’s emasculating. Keep your money.”

Love that moves the sun and the other stars.

Resisting the urge to reach up and pet his beard,

I promise I’m not a giant basket case. I’m just a little one.”

loving how his beard feels against my skin. How hard he’s breathing. How he’s not treating me like I’m a fragile, breakable thing, but as if he thinks I’m strong enough to handle whatever he wants to give me.

“Your mouth gets all puckered and your nose wrinkles up. You look like a prissy little old lady.”

“Is this what you need, baby? You like it rough? Or do you want me to recite some poetry and make you a cup of fucking tea?”

“What are you doing?” he’d cry, his brow creased in dismay. “The man probably doesn’t even have a college degree!”

A dangerous, beautiful predator, poised to shred me to bits with sharp teeth.

“Nowhere to go, little bunny,”

I’m the mouse and he’s the cat,

“It’s been great, champ! Thanks for the fabulous sausage-stuffing!”

How naïve we are when we’re young. How easily we trust that the sun will keep rising and setting, warming our days. And what a terrible blow it is to discover it isn’t the sun that makes things bright, but the people who love us, so that when they’re gone, everything is plunged into darkness.

“We’re not introverts. We’re misanthropes. Big difference.”

he’s got me good and trapped in the bonfire of his gaze,

Isn’t that just typical, though? The minute you start talking about feelings, men suddenly go deaf and mute.

“And you’ll get it. When I’m ready to give it to you.”

I want to roll around in these sheets like a dog in mud, getting his scent all over me,

“Here in this bed, this is what happens: I give. You take. You’ll take and you’ll take until you break, then you’ll beg me to break you all over again.”

“Don’t you dare let go without my permission,” he growls,

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. The warning only makes me hotter.

A handsome stranger with secrets in his eyes and a way of looking at me as if he already knows everything there is to know about me. As if I’m a book he’s read a thousand times and highlighted all his favorite passages.

He reappears carrying a wet washcloth and a hand towel. He silently pushes me onto my back and wipes the washcloth gently between my legs as I lie there feeling as if all my bones have turned to liquid. He dries me off with the hand towel, then rises and flips off the light switch. Then he crawls onto the mattress beside me, rolls me to my side, pulls me against his chest, and buries his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. When he exhales, it sounds as if a hundred years of pent-up frustrations leave his body in the same breath.

My nipples are, too. So is my entire nervous system, which feels as if it’s about to explode.

Ghosts are quite common in the old country.

ghosts most definitely believe in you.”

“Do you suppose God is affected one way or another if people don’t believe in him?”

Love isn’t real without intent. It’s a verb. It isn’t passive.

I melt. I melt like a Popsicle dropped onto hot asphalt on a blistering summer day.

It’s hot euphoria running along every nerve ending, setting me on fire.

I know it without a doubt, and that’s what keeps me on the right side of the fine line between pleasure and fear.

His total dominance over my body—a dominance that I not only allow, but crave—makes something fragile inside my chest snap like a twig.

I break down into tears, sobbing helplessly in sweet surrender as this beautiful beast of a man drags me down with him into the dark.

I can’t say exactly why, but something about the way we play together is so cathartic. Every time, it’s as if I’ve been baptized and reborn into a lighter version of my own body.

Even though we’re pretending he’s in control, I always know, deep down, that I am. And even though we can get rough, there’s an underlying sense of care and safety that makes me feel adored like I’ve never been before.

“Eyes on me.”

And how you look at me. The way you look at me makes me feel like a goddamn king.”

The ripe, damp smell of the earth fills my nostrils. A cool breeze washes over me, forming goose bumps all over my bare skin. Far overhead, birds sing and leaves whisper in the boughs of the trees.

what a smutty vocabulary you have.

It’s incredible how many different people one body can hold. We all walk around with a thousand strangers inside us, slumbering quietly until someone else wakes them up.

You are not controlling the storm, and you are not lost in it. You are the storm.

You’re the chaos. You’re the storm. You’re the one creating the high winds and choppy seas you have to navigate. You’re the source of everything that’s happening.