Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Every Full Moon

by yt sumner

There’s a beast in the bedroom.

He thinks I’m flattering him when I tell him that. He thinks I’m talking about the way he bites my neck or pulls my hair when we fuck.

He likes it when I say that, he thinks it’s brave to say fuck instead of make love.

But we haven’t done either. I just say it because it makes him bite my neck and pull my hair. What he doesn’t know is that it’s all just been heavy petting. What he doesn’t know is that I want to devour him.

He thinks I’m joking when I say

I’m a hideous thing inside.

He laughs,

At least we’re all oil paintings on the outside.

I decide to tell him when he’s asleep because he’ll think it’s a dream and when he wakes up there won’t be any name-calling or door slamming or blood.

He’ll just wake up and know.

I watch the way he breathes for a long time. His chest heaves like earth being overturned by machinery and I lick the sweat that starts from his collarbone, following the scent up his throat. I have to stop half way. I open my mouth wider, my tongue already thick.

There’s nothing more maddening than a man’s scent. I have no interest in the ones that mask it with deodorants. He smokes and drinks and it laces his musk like wormwood. The bitter drug is so good that by the time I get to his ear, I forget why I’m here. But he groans, still asleep, and his hand reaches between my legs.

This makes it harder but I remember and run my tongue across my teeth for luck then tell him.

His hand moves while my lips press against his ear and when I finish, his hand stills and his eyes open.

He tells me about his dream and his hand starts moving again, his voice rough, and as his other hand reaches into my hair, a tremor begins deep in my throat. I move against him and he tells me about this beast and how it promised to show him all about love. How it would try not to show him unless he asked.

I stretch. Everything stretches and he feels it, and instead of cringing he buries his hands in my hair and pulls hard. He nestles his face into the tremor, now a throbbing growl, where my throat is still stretching, and just before he bites he whispers,

Show me.

Instead of the usual door slamming or name-calling or messy blood mopping, I wake up and he’s still beside me. I trace the raw lacerations streaking his body and he wakes up and smiles at me though one black eye. Before I say anything he asks if it’s still technically a full moon and I growl and he laughs and slides his bruised body, still reeking of man, between my legs and we make love. We fuck. We devour.

Every full moon.

yt sumner writes some, sleeps some, snorts some and fucks some. She’s proud of all of the above. She blogs at