Member-only story
Here’s a short story.
Man meets woman.
In college. Geology class. The earth and the rocks that it is composed of.
A hand job in the middle of this class. Sex in the woods. Sex in the car. Sex on the plane.
And, then no sex. No sex, at all, anymore.
A relationship cannot subsist without intimacy. A person cannot exist without touch; in particular: this man.
The man gets angry. And more angry. And angrier. Taut and tight and stretched thin like a rubber band from Earth to Moon, an unbelievably thin filament invisible to the naked human eye.
The anger builds year after year into a furious rage, a blinding tempest, an inhuman fury, bigger than the moon and even higher.
This rage pollutes everything, including the man and the women and everyone in its path.
Decades pass.
No sex. No touching. No intimacy.
Just a cold, hard, unwavering, undeniable, and unyielding fact, just like her.
Rejection. Over and over and over. Always more rejection. Always more conditions: if you would only . . . , then I would feel like having sex. More deals. More negotiation. More talk, talk, talk.
Always more talk.
