Equations: Dialectic Form (2021)

#15
Jena lives, this year, on the fourth floor of Runkle Hall. I am on her bed;
she is sitting astride me, still fully clothed. She fishes me out of my pants.
She uses her hands, in such a way I can sense she’s done this before. But
it doesn’t matter, because my mind swims, swirls, does dances. It goes off
into space. There is a cosmic dimension to sex that (I will learn later) only
manifests with someone you love. So, this is a hand job, but as I come my
entire consciousness heaves; whatever is rigid or rigidly held in my brain
turns to mush. If there is any ice left, she has taken a pick-ax to it. And,
unlike later lovers, she doesn’t stop the process when I start to shoot. Her
hands move in a steady rhythm for the entire duration of my orgasm. This
is, for me, unspeakable, and so generous I’m not ready to appreciate it. As
the world falls back into place, as I reenter this static universe, I realize
that sex really can lift a human soul upwards. It’s just that I have yet to
learn the ways it can get stale, so I believe it must always be like this. Jena
diligently creates a wad of tissues to clean us off, even as afternoon sun
creates curlicues on the two beds (her roommate not home), the ugly
painted brick walls (dull tan), the wooden closets that extend up to the
ceiling with silver-rail handles, and all Jena’s dainty little possessions: a
lava lamp, posters (The Who’s Tommy on Broadway), pictures of her
family. Everything lives, for these moments, in a heightened universe (and
universal) perspective. Not God, but something Godly.
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