Black Boxes. Caroline Smailes

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      So you made my insides red.

      And I longed for the end.

      I longed for the fucking to finish.

      And I would fake.

       ~You didn't realise that I faked?~

      You thought that you were a God.

      My moans and arched back were perfectly timed.

      I told a story.

      I made it all up.

      You see.

      You weren't a God.

      Not in bed.

      Not in our bed.

       ~Do you realise that you were really crap in bed?~

       ~Has Sue ever mentioned it to you?~

       ~Does she fake?~

       ~Are you sure that you could tell?~

      You see.

      A performance can be too perfect.

      I used to wait for the applause.

      [sound: sharp clap clap clap]

      You should ask Sue if she fakes.

      You were the worst of my eighteen.

      Congratulations.

      I've made you a certificate.

      It's hanging in a shell-covered frame.

      If I open my eyes.

      And if I stare out from my black box, then I can see your framed certificate.

      Suspended in the air.

      Just above where the tide meets the shore.

      [sound: thumping scrape of window frame on wood]

      [silence]

       ~Do you know that I pleasure myself?~

      It was a skill that I learned during our time together.

      I'd work myself until the tips of my fingers became numb.

      I used to think about you when I did it.

      I don't now.

      Not always.

      [silence]

      Noun: Masturbation.

      The encouragement of one's own genitals.

      Etymology: Latin origin.

      Perhaps.

      Manus being 'hand', and turbare to excite or stir up.

      It entered English in the eighteenth century.

      Possibly.

      It's a nice word.

      A nice strong stimulating word.

      [sound: a guttural laugh]

      Red and white make pink.

      The view is not pink.

      The view from here is red.

       Blink.

       Blink.

      [silence]

      I can count on my right hand the number of times that I have seen your sperm.

      Your spunk.

      Your come.

      I have never tasted it.

       ~Has Sue?~

      [sound: a guttural laugh]

       ~Do you remember when I asked you if you love(d) me?~

      We'd been together for about two years.

      And I love(d) you.

      I'd always love(d) you.

      And I told you.

      Over and over.

      Sometimes I was overwhelmed with love for you and the words would burst out.

      [voiced: [b] sound]

      [volume: high]

      Voiced bilabial plosive.

      I used to be clever.

      [voiced: [b] sound]

      [volume: high]

      Sometimes I was overwhelmed with love for you and the words would burst out.

      [voiced: I love you]

      [volume: high]

      Without restraint.

      Highly stressed syllables would gush out without warning.

      And I'd hate myself every time that I told you.

      Because the silence that came after my words.

      The silence that floated from your lips.

      It was heavy.

      It crashed to the floor and echoed around the room.

      And then one day.

      Fuelled with vodka and lime.

      I asked you if you love(d) me.

       ~And do you remember what you said?~

       ~Do you remember what you did?~

      You laughed.

      [sound: a guttural ho ho ho laugh]

      You told me, I will never love you.

      You told me, my heart is the size of a pea.

      That, it is green and waiting to be mushy.

      I never asked you again.

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