sex.

I have been f*cking this white man.

he does all the right things to me, says things very plain, very blatant. What am I going to do? Make love to him every chance I get? No. But I hope so.
his c*ck is so hard all the time it makes me feel like a whore that I want him so bad. I want to examine his face, his features while he rocks my world, fingers me, exhilarates me.
All day he was staring at me,

literally making me come it was exhausting. I tried to look away from him because his broken heart made me cry inside. We had a dinner date instead, we ate in silence, kind of. We touched each other in the restaurant and had sex upstairs in the hotel room. There was a wedding reception happening in the grand ball room down stairs and we could both feel the vibration of the music through the ceiling; he kept f*cking me.

It was the best-most, worst thing. Mainly because no one knows about it: not the heartbroken women or the side hoes, not even me. I cannot remember every detail off the top of my head, but it was very magical. Very mystical. We did magic-mushrooms in my Honda Civic while he made me moan. Touching me through my panties, and feeling the imprint of my vulva on his thumb.
he took me shopping all day and bought me a pear necklace. I could already imagine myself handing it down generation after generation to happy princesses, while the King still pounds me out after supper. I smiled for what seemed like twenty four hours in the abrasive sun. I wanted to keep shopping with him, just so he could touch in line, or brush his lips against my neck while I pretend: pretend I am not in love with him, pretend I am squeezing my life into this thighs & he never let me go. We meant to sleep in the car, but did not.

-Jude.