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stacy skolnik Junior / Photography


Bombs


We would fuck, your hips thrashing against


some sort of barricade. As


for someone with power. We would fuck


sometimes in the bathroom, my ass on the edge of the counter of the sink, feeling the occasional drip of water abandoning the faucet.


But mostly we fucked on the floor of your room, with the dirty carpet, and the cold pennies scattered like casualties, the fan blowing so hard it made a drought of my eyes.


The books spread open like legs, jaws unclenched.


I was so used to you pounding, in-out-in-out, like some sort of hammer or machine gun or repugnant refrain, so I was shocked that time when you had to


go slow--


You were on top, and your dick was kind of just wading in me, sort of still. You brought your lips to my ear, and said, as if this were something sentimental, ‘look, we’re making love.’


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