Dry Read

It is a dry read: as in not wet. I understand the metaphors. I have used them myself. I use it now as I drag myself back to the book that is all conversation and scant description. It is not moist.

Moist is a word that is associated with sex. It is all about the cunt. That damp, hothouse of a cavity that leaks viscous juices and comes in a flood I have heard although I have never been exposed to this in the flesh.

The thought of sticky damp is an aphrodisiac. The shelling and sucking down of oysters, the plunging of my fingers into the warm thick wet chemistry of wallpaper paste, all this is about sex.

I would be a disappointment. I am a desert of lust, a mirage of moisture, an incessant desire that has always needed lubricant, or at least spit. We read 'drip' or 'flood' or 'awash'. In porn the women become oceans. Wet as whales, slick as seals. I am stranded on the sand and despite my love of water there is not a drop for you do drink.

When she tells me about her trick - the dam bursting, the explosion of juices soaking into the carpet, I am aroused and slightly jealous and regretful of my missed opportunity to stand at the edge of the falls and anoint my forehead with the abundance that I seem to lack.