I am no runner I say. I say this as I return from a run, a run that comes unnaturally–a gazelle I am not–as my perspiration drips down my forehead, as it drips down my chest. My hair, thick hair, matted on my head not beautiful only heavy and holding in the sweat, the bitter scent like long-awaited rain on a summer street, bitter and steaming. My face is red. I am not beautiful.
I am beautiful, you say, as you push me down all steaming and sweaty, as you push me down before my shower, my body yielding to you easily now, breathing through my skin, alive, and electric, and you find every pore, it seems, every single entrance into my body, until I melt and metamorphose–strong and alive and excited.
My thighs ache in the start, and the aching subsides, changes when I run, when I fuck you. The ache becomes that sustaining force, that impetus toward higher heights. Push me. Please push me. Push me beyond the point that pain radiates into pleasure beyond pleasure. Take me higher, love me, forget my earthly existence, my petty limitations, myself. Bring me more into myself, this journey nearly spiritual in its demands and exaltations. Fuck me, and unleash the brutal beauty that trespasses beyond the body, the mind, beyond me, beyond you.