I wrote something today. I haven’t done that in a long time.
After a while, he’d make the coffee himself. Not before giving her one last fuck, though. Hard. Cum. ‘Good morning’.
Then he’d get out of bed, stroll naked to the kitchen, still sweaty. Put the kettle on, plug his phone into the charger hanging from the table. Cupboard, mug – always the same one, the one she’d first made him a coffee in, the one that meant the least to her. Coffee powder, 3 teaspoons of sugar, boiling water, fridge open and then, ‘Jeez…the red one. I’d forgotten about the red one’.
Once, a long time ago, she’d tried to explain The Red One to him. But he didn’t listen. He never listened. He wasn’t able to listen, or care, about anything, or anyone. Maybe that’s why he was such an incredible fuck. He fucked like nothing else mattered, because nothing else did matter, to him.
Like so many men before him, men that she knew and didn’t, he’d set to work, building a frame. It was gilded and ornate and made of pretend and air. It was a joke. And he’d reached out and shoved a woman into it. There, I’ve got you now. And he’d made a baby with her, to seal the deal. Too late, of course, he’d realised the frame was as much of a naive idea as it was now a trap. A lifetime of responsibilities he did not want. What a joke. He didn’t bother painting the picture first – fuck the picture, that’s just the soft gooey middle of the strong, manly frame. But of course that was a mistake. It’s always a mistake, to build the frame before the picture has been painted. It’s a mistake that is repeated, endlessly, by broken boys brought up with silly notions of ‘doing the right thing’. It’s a mistake to even think about contemplating trying to explain to these broken boys that their lives are a scam, they themselves the scammers.
Scam, scam, fucking scam. Take the fuck and don’t kid yourself.
Yeah, it’s not great really. But you’ve got to start somewhere. And I have got to start, full stop.