She used to read me dirty stories in bed, but I swear she made up the parts in the middle.
One night while it was snowing, she warmed up the wine and cranked up the heat. She lit a candle that smelled like spring and we crawled into bed with Anais Nin and George Bataille. She made me lie on my stomach as she read out loud, and I only sat up for slow sips of mulled red and spices I didn’t know.
“Mary’s cunt is crimson and her dress covers nothing. I can still smell her sex on my fingers, but I miss her presence between my legs already. If I don’t fuck her again I’m never going back to Paris.”
“It doesn’t say that,” I said as I reached out for my glass.
“Be quiet,” she said, before she continued. “Mary’s brother says I’m a terrible influence, but I know he abused himself as he watched us last night, and I can’t get the image out of my head. His prick was red and hard, and when I pulled her mouth hardest against me he collapsed on the other side of the door. I believe he wants to fuck Mary as much as me, and frankly I don’t care.”
“You’re totally making this up.”
“Do you want me to finish the story?” she asked.
“Yes love,” I replied, and it was the truth. I was hard against the bed and I didn’t care whose words they were at all. In fact, the only thing that mattered was the sound of her voice.
“One day I’m going to have them both and I’ll write words on her thighs with my tongue as he fills me until I drown. Some nights the thought keeps me up forever, and I wonder if it’s my only hope. Maybe the more I lose myself in my dreams the less it will hurt to be awake. Maybe drowning will be my bliss.”
I rolled over and pulled her to me with a kiss that was long and deep. The thought of her drowning in anything did too many things to my mind for me to let go. She was wet between the legs as well as both her cheeks, and by the time I was inside her the book had fallen to the floor.
She didn’t open her eyes for hours, and I was afraid that if I said a word her dream might end.
—Guy New York