FICTION: to the mexican i met in maputo

BY ALEXANDER MATTHEWS

the wine is finished and our friends have gone to bed and now it is just us seventeen floors above maputo on a balcony it doesn’t matter what we’re talking about i’m just thinking about how i want us to kiss you mention your haircut and i brush the side of your head as if i’m critiquing it and this is somehow a sign we both narrow the gap between us and are kissing now and huddled against each other like we’re battling a storm together eyes closed the city is silent and black my eyes open and i ask you if you want to take me home and you say there’s a spare bedroom here so i say whatever suits and you say actually yes you would like to take me home you tell me you knew this would happen the moment you saw my veldskoene which are just like yours even though yours are from buenos aires and mine were made in ottery we plunge down to earth in the rattling lift and drive through the quiet streets and you ask if i have my passport in case the police stop us i do and they don’t and ten minutes later we are climbing staircases and you’re leading me through a dark lounge apologising for your messy bedroom i tell you not to worry inside you put the light on and we are on your bed kissing again softly and slowly the strip-duet till we are both naked and in each other’s mouths and i’m nuzzling your balls and neatly shaved pubes we jerk each other off i marvel at the sheer effort of this am i lazy perhaps yes you shove a finger in my ass the look of concentration as you do this is quite beautiful the dry force of the finger a little brutal and i am wondering what do you like do you want me to fuck you do you want me to finger you is what you’re doing to me a mirror of your own desires and are my own attempts at pleasuring you working shit we are dancers that know the sequence of the steps but not the rhythm the spit has helped and i am coming and you are sitting on my thighs gripping your dick asking if you can come i am surprised you felt you had to ask i say yes the spattering pearls my tummy mixing with my own cum i try to make sure it doesn’t rivulet down onto the sheets you get up and go to the bathroom you’re there forever but eventually you return with not enough toilet paper and i mop myself up now here is what seems so elusive and fading the slight tenderness did we kiss goodnight when the light went off there must’ve been please just a kiss on the lips i think you asked how i was and i grinned and said i was fine because i really was although i ached for a cuddle and now we’re in the dark and you are lying next to me and i want to hold you but i’m worried that’s invasive somehow i keep to my side of the bed sleep takes me finally i wake up occasionally and then about half past five i’m fully alert and can hear the voices and the cars from the street seeping through the curtain you are still asleep though later on you will wake up and turn over and return to sleep and this repeats itself as i lie next to you bored craving not more sex but a fucking cuddle at eight i kiss your shoulder and chest and you sleepily smile and we kiss each other on the lips good morning and you cat-stretch your way to standing and go to shower while i read emails on my phone on our way out of the apartment your french flatmate is sitting in the lounge i wave at him sheepishly i wonder if he’s used to this we stutter between txopelas and taxis and onto kenneth kaunda not saying quite enough to fill the emptiness between us you drop me off at the roundabout next to the hotel and extend your hand and i shake it and tell you to let me know if you want to do that dinner tonight and you tell me you’re probably working late with your boss who’s in town and when i’m outside striding through the glare i smile at this old cliché and i cringe at the handshake a fucking handshake eight hours after i had your penis in my mouth and i wonder between that moment and now where the hell i went wrong

One thought on “FICTION: to the mexican i met in maputo

  1. Another mediocre piece of writing from another seemingly uninspired writer – a single obscure paragraph churned out rather more for the sake of (paying the bills/meeting the deadline/filling the page/…) than being the product of an emboldened ink-slinger at the top of his game…
    To be fair, Mr. Matthews does start us off by painting a fairly intriguing backdrop – whisking one away to an exotic city-by-the-sea in the dark of an early morning afterglow – but then he fails to amplify this into something concrete and tangible, instead falling back onto bland homoerotic drivel. Like a chef trying to salvage a cake burnt beyond recognition, he then omits captions, punctuation and structure in a last-ditch attempt at drawing away attention from the total lack of substance of his prose. This might have worked to an extent, were it not for the sub-par grammar, the ridiculous repetition of the word “and” (a whopping 58 times), and the utter unoriginal boredom of the content…

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