L and I met a few times each week to fuck on a mattress. We ate the other up ’til each was cummed out. Soaked in sweat and sex fluid. She’d make me shoot on her face then wipe with an old robe. I’d blow three or four times. Even then she needed more. The next day my balls pulsed with pain and she’d text that she too turned sore.
As time went on L confessed a need to get fucked on a washing machine. The one sitting in her rundown apartment’s laundry room. The complex was big and it’d be risky. That mattered little. We were spun on the drug that dropped from our brains when I slipped inside her.
On a day apart I rounded up quarters. Picked through my room then the crumb-filled carpet beneath my car’s seat. I turned up a few dollars. Texted a shot of the coins scattered in clumps on the soft palm of my hand. The words with it proclaimed that they were to fire up the machine as I fucked her.
L didn’t respond. Exited our world without a word. I reread our text chain, its final entry a photographic reminder of a connection not just lost but one replaced with confusion. I clung in hope to the quarters but we never met again. In time I spent them. Let go of all hope.