Make Art, Not Love

We are both musicians. He was tall, Spanish, with long hair, a heavy accent, and a charisma so clearly cultivated through years of charming women. I was young and growing into womanhood. Growing out my hair from dyed blonde to a natural brown. Growing out my pubic hair. He was married and they say I looked like his wife.

In the swell of make believe that is creating art for a living, we knowingly went for a walk on the beach. I teased him into the water, playfully moving deeper until I could feel the thick sea water against my ass. He came to join me. I felt him press against me and we kissed. I felt him hard against me, his fingers plunging between my legs. It was cliché, but sublime.

We went to his room. He threw me on to the bed and sucked hard on my tits, on my lips. He played with my pubic hairs with his fingers and licked me. He told me he wanted to play with my ass. He licked my inner thighs and ran his finger between my pussy to my ass. He drew circles around it until my wetness covered his finger. He slowly pushed his finger in my ass and kissed my neck. Holding his cock he pushed against me until I felt all of him inside of me. Sex like this is just pure sex. Nothing more. Carnal. He pushed deeper. He squeezed me, put his hands at the nape of my neck. I moved against him, harder, and deeper until I felt him swell. Throbbing, he came inside my ass and they lay on top of me. He played with the sweaty curls behind my ear. Perhaps we felt guilty. Perhaps we were animals.