“Tenderloin” by Luke Sutherland

Like a fever, they had to sweat out their shame. Towel over the bedsheets, curtain closed, the lovers laid skin-to-skin. They were flesh, pickled in the brine of themselves. The body was a thing to endure & yet— in communion, one could rest on the bevel of the other, be blessed, be with, become;
Touch me here again. Sinew stretched in the space between the lovers' bellies, cobwebs of cells stitched together, mutant & beatific. What cock, whose cunt, breast, scar? ('boundaries & borders gone! I've vanished...')
The lovers unwashed themselves. They fruited, spilled sports, rooted in the clay of each other. Tasted rock salt and smoke, felt embers spit onto willing tongues. They woke, damp. One lover ran their fingers down the other's face, prickling hair shredded lamb-soft on the neck; the rise and fall of one breath in both chests...
They dried themselves, stood, and wrung out the towel.

Luke Sutherland (He/they)
Luke Sutherland is a writer from the Jersey Shore. You can find him staring into the sea at a beach near you or on Twitter @lukejsuth.