Now I lay me down to sleep, my hands trace my body the way you did the other night. I stay in anticipation because I don’t know when you’ll return. Always vigilant I try to keep my sins forgiven hoping that maybe, just maybe you’d encourage me to kiss you and then cum all over your dick. When I don’t turn on the news or buy into my Facebook feed then I remember all the righteous beauty; I remember all of your chocolate goodness, the roundness of your muscles and how all of them make me excited. When I don’t turn on the news or buy into my Facebook feed I don’t see all of ‘god’s children’ wreaking havoc.
Gods tell people to raise their hands when elated and then pull a trigger and kill when someone else’s god insults them. Neither one of them have actually met their gods—but hearsay often takes precedence. I’d rather raise my hands above my head, the way you make me do when you kiss that soft skin at the base of my neck–close enough to my ear to feel your breath–my vision locked on the muscles along your back they flex and relax when you move inside me–nothing makes me more excited than your scent, makes me pine like a bitch in heat. You are so black and you are so beautiful. Teach me how to take your dick.
Gods tell people its okay to enslave if someone offends your beliefs, but I’d rather lay bound in those limbs, unable to escape the profundity of your kindness. Massacre after massacre, lives erased in seconds, the screams of children and blood-soaked walls—all of the gods of all of the people answering all of the prayers to annihilate the other. It’s what we’ve done for centuries but I prefer the little deaths, the ones that result in breathlessness—the ones that leave my limbs shaken and weak—your kiss any day to the knife or the bullet–me dripping all over your face. Kissing you like resting my own head between my thighs, you give me a glimpse into myself.
Let us pray. I do better on my knees anyways.
All the gods in all the places fighting for the right to kill the other—convincing the people that if they could just persuade you to believe—then everything will be alright, everything will be in control, as if this planet, universe or even a single cell in our bodies stops to take note. Can you whisper again while you’re inside me, reminding me why you’re here in the first place? Can you just lay there and let me fuck you as I please because you know the pleasure flings me into nirvana? Because you know I can’t help but jump up and down on it and sometimes I get so excited I hurt myself. Just lay there and let me use it how I want. Amen.
Can’t we just climax to the sound of the chanting—the chanting that’s supposed to erase my shame. Gods tell people to rape, kill, steal, beat and hate—but only out of love. Only a loving god could condone such heinousness—it doesn’t matter what we think of it, for there is so much we don’t understand—didn’t the gods write that down in a book? But I just want you to stand up in front of me so I can see you fully in all of that perfect brown skin. I don’t want there to be a slither of fabric between you and me, it upsets our communication. I want you to say what you said before—you know how you say dat shit with no words? How your body sings and dances with me and those eyes know. They know I like submitting. They know I can’t resist your stroke. I know what I prefer: A stroke that can sign the lives of millions away or the one leaving me sprawled out and covered in cum and sweat—body aching and shaking from your invasion. I know what I like. Sitting at work the next day, I squeeze it and can still feel you…