45 Seconds

Staring into my husband’s stony face I realize I could probably make it as a prostitute. Not because I’m that good, but because I care that little. The kisses on my neck. The thrust of his body. The saliva dripping from his mouth. This is the mechanics of love, the clinical way of love resounding memories of how it once was.
I’m good at pretending to care. My hands gripping the softness of his body. My tongue licking my lips. Yes. I’m good at pretending to care. And when he asks, “Are you OK?” It makes me think my clientele would be virgin college boys who fear my woman’s body. And when he asks, “Are you enjoying it?” I smile because his concern, like theirs would be, is sweet.
I lie. Not only to his question, but on my back. Allowing him to move my body like a doll. I pretend for his ego, for his enjoyment. Like any good hooker worth her cent. His breathing increases. My smile is habit. There are no more kisses. His forehead drops to my lips. That’s right. Let me take care of you. Let me prove my use.

Yes. I think I could survive it. That place beyond meaningless. That place beyond one night. 

That place beyond. 

Posted by

Jaymee is the writing force and creative director behind the Beaux Cooper brand. She loves to collaborate with other writers and journalists across the genres. Jaymee lives under the beautiful foothills of the Front Range in Colorado with her cat, Ada, and partner.

2 thoughts on “45 Seconds

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s