HER HAIR DOESN'T CHANGE COLORS WHEN WE FUCK BECAUSE I DON'T WANT IT TO

I want her black streamlines, the tips on her collarbones, her scalp the start of something
that draws me to her, unlike the words that come out of her mouth, which dissolve as we
fuck, abandoned for onomatopoeia— syllables broken into open vowels, elongated mouth
strokes, fingers down her scalp and cheeks then back on my stomach so she can lift off a
bit and I can see a part of me that was just hidden inside her.

Tell me when you're going to come, she says when not gagged by my not small and not
big cock, her hair blonde when I want to delay it, black when I want release. She's
outside walking down the street, high heels, converse, flat bottom and barefooted; short
skirt, such tight jeans, like a baggy blouse or that black silk dress I've never seen her
wear; no underwear, except for a thong and maxipad panties; no tampon, shaved, hairy
bush with a string leaking out, a mouse burrowed in an armpit, a rat trapped in a polished
chrome vulva hotel, enticed by smell and the promise of something non-lethal; flat chest
a mouthful of heaving overstuffed breasts.

She only wants the things that I need, and she only wants them because I need them.
Smug, she reeks of it, like cheap perfume on a gold digger confident in getting custody of
her own unwanted children. I smell it and tell her I'm going to come, because I am. Come
inside me, she says. Not because I need it— my cum she can have— but because it brings
her closer to taking the things I do need, like to cum, right now. In some cities, it never
gets cold enough for people to see their own breath. Maybe that's why it's so easy for
them to forget they're alive. Outside, it's cold enough for me to know I'm alive.
Breathing hot in her mouth, my dick softening inside her, I forget why that's important
information.

I come in her mouth as she comes in mine, my dick in her hand, in her ass, in my mouth,
and I can't breathe as she turns into someone whose name I cannot remember, so I look at
the tattoo on my arm and call it out: skin. But we can't hear each other, our moans and
the slang of copulation manhandled mute by outside sirens and silence. The street's a
breeding ground for pedophiles and inferiority complexes. Try to stay away. Since when
did the word 'try' imply impossibility— failure, a construct of someone else. Pave a road.
Wear with use.