“Get out of my way,” she shouted. This was not directed at some ordinary stranger stubbornly blocking her on the street. It was not a directive issued simply because someone pissed her off. No, this was a direct order at someone who, only half and hour earlier, had been diligently fucking the daylights out of her. Who had, only minutes earlier, come deep inside of her, and lain heavily on top, heaving raspy breaths on the side of her neck. Who, only seconds earlier, rolled off her sweat-covered torso, eliciting a response in her left hand to quickly slide behind and under her buttocks, in anticipation for the streaming out of spunk. The other hand slid between her thighs, and covered her pussy. Thus self-straight jacketed, she rocked her body side to side, her legs simultaneously pulling her towards the edge of the bed, making haste towards the bathroom, to avoid any spillage. She hoisted herself past his surprised face, and staggered straight into the shower stall. Usually, a quick squat down on the toilet was sufficient, but with both hands covered, she felt it necessary to fully clean off. So the shower was best for the job, allowing sweat, sperm, and piss to release under chemically fragrant-smelling gel wash.


Perhaps, she reflected, that was not the most romantic of post-coital sayings. It was, nonetheless, straight-forward and practical. As she soaped up, she made a mental note of how far her notion of romantic trysts differed from real-life rendezvous. How, mentally, a part of her still expected sweet nothings to be whispered in her ear, light caresses…and of very little clean up to occur. For her, that was the cold slap of reality and the down-side to real-life sex: the clean up.


Hollywood and books don’t go into that aspect of sex. Heroines and desperately passionate seductresses never had to worry about wiping down afterwards, of lovers’ hot spunk briskly congealing and crusting. Instead, they reveled in it, and stayed put, huskily exchanged words of breathless feeling. Was this realization, as hot water steamed up around her, the marker of the evolution of her sexual expectations? To go from those immature, sentimental notions (reeking terrifically, she admitted, of one too many romance novels), to rapidly and obsessively scrubbing down each and every time –this, this was her sex maturation? Or was it simply her need to be clean? No. She found the whole denouement to sex undignified, even when humour was employed. At best, it felt awkward: the fistfuls of Kleenex tissue, or an occasional hand towel…maybe the use of a pair of soiled panties. Undignified because it somehow broke the spell of her fantasy, and made her realize how fleeting it is — this distraction called sex. Besides, she had a strong need for fantasy, was a creature of sensuousness, with a seemingly infinite ability to feel. Physical stimulation did not scare nor bother her in the slightest. Rather, it was the realm in which she wished to exist, permanently. Thinking only got in the way. Mind, body, feeling, flesh. Her body, this real, physical element, betrayed her, and turned out to be stronger than the mind, like when she found herself needing to take a piss after orgasm: the body’s natural and intuitive way of self-cleaning. Try as she might, she could not escape reality. Best to get out of its way.


[NOTE FROM AUTHOR: thanks to our co-moderators for supplying inspiring writing themes that give focus and instigate thought.]

Erica, 34, London UK