We packed tshirts, thongs and bathers, toothbrushes, croissants and snacks – crisps, oranges. Sunscreen. Condoms, lube and toys. I packed perfume and lipstick, high heels, my diary, Catherine Malabou’s The Ontology of the Accident. Tissues.
And he packed chewing gum, whisky, an epipen. I don’t know what else. We were on a beach holiday, a dirty weekend. It was an escape or a tryst or a romp. We were together. We were lovers and we were in love, lovestruck, loved-up.
We swam in the ocean and watched the tideline become horizon, become sky. This was a holiday, it was downtime. The economy was tepid and our working lives were difficult. We had been causing each other pain.
On the drive we held hands. We refueled in a tourist town, a hamlet. When we talked it was intimate, funny, warm, flirtatious, tender, serious, tense, confronting.
The hotel room was painted yellow. From the balcony we could see the water, that big blue, its sparkling haze. Our bed was made up with a faded duvet. Upon arriving we saw ourselves in the mirror. He undressed me, holding my gaze. And I began to stroke him, our eyes still locked.
We screwed, made love, had sex. It was warm; we were sweating, dripping. We were grinding, scratching and sucking, caressing and speaking. I was his kinky bitch, his sweetheart, his whore, and he was my handsome, my fuck toy, my dear true love.
Emily Stewart is a writer and editor. Her recent work has been published or is forthcoming in Filmme Fatales, Overland and the Age. She is a 2014 Wheeler Centre Hot Desk Fellow. Emilyvalentinestewart.com