Adam Ash

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Monday, June 05, 2006



“Do it harder. Harder, Adam.”

That’s all Eve wanted: for him to fuck her hard. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want preliminaries. It scared him. She came a lot. Every time she came, she cried.

“Why are you crying? You never did before.”

“Because I’m happy.”

“You don’t look very happy.”

“Do it hard.”

He did. It was obvious that was what she wanted. That’s all she said. She hadn’t even said hello. She just rubbed up against him and unzipped him, and made him hard as fast as she could. No matter how many times he asked her, she would not tell him what was the matter with her bandaged hands.


There was no other space or time to do anything else. It was all taken up with her demand, her need, her incessancy. Cold, hard fucking. All she could do, or have done to her, to feel anything.

As hard as he did it to her, he didn’t feel he was asserting himself. He was asserting an idea she had of him. This wasn’t him having the upper hand. It was her using him for her own purpose.

She came, she cried. And then they did it again, so she could stop crying. Inside herself she felt a chilly distance; she only felt near to the world after she came, and then she cried. He was inside her, and that was all she felt, the thing inside her, herself folded around it, like a gear lever that controlled her, holding it inside, feeling it slip inside and out, moving against the walls of her vagina, attached to something, somebody, Adam a man, the man inside her, fucking her.

“Harder. Do it harder.”

The only words she spoke, a command, what she wanted, what it wanted, the force inside her that was destroying her, and only wanted fucking and coming and then broke her down into crying, so she was forced to fuck again.


More than anything, when she thought about what had happened in the church, about Jonathan and Ezra, about how fierce they were, about how the one killed and the other almost did, she asked herself, and damned herself by asking herself: Could I love like that, like Jonathan loved David, like Ezra felt betrayed by me? Do I have that much feeling in me? Can anything on earth call out that intensity from me? To be precise, can I say I’ve lived if I haven’t experienced such intensity, such love -- a love unto death?

“Why are you crying?”

It was not sex as worship or sex as prayer or sex as science or sex as carnality. It was sex as punishment.

“I’m crying because I’m happy.”

“You don’t look happy.” What’s more, thought Adam, you’re using me. You’re giving me orders. You’re fucking me instead of me fucking you. Who do you think you are?


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