Truth in Sex

It is bodies, because it has to be. It is hands in secret places, tongues in hidden crevices. It is the shadows of flames caressing and lightly burning across skins pressed closely against skins. It is whispers of lies, the way all bodies lie when pressed like that. It is pain and pleasure, violence and gentility. It is the release of fluids, the mess of glands releasing their hold. It is hot and cold, new and familiar. Every time.
But there is no truth in sex. The whispering of intimacies the bodies mumble to each other are lies. The dick says love and the vagina believes, but in the morning the light shows the soiled sheets and the horror of the night before.
And, for some reason, I can't get enough. Usually.
Right now, though, during the week I don't have the energy, and during the weekends I don't have the time. Fuck, this was supposed to be SO much more interesting.
Laters