The Vice & The Voice
(iii) Sometimes I don't want to fuck because sex is our v(o)ice.
It’s December and I’m waiting for you in the cold. You park up on the curb in your white Audi. Heated seats, low music. You smell like money (but don’t you always, honey?) It's been five years, maybe more. Back then, I would come by your penthouse and swim in your pool. I used to be your girlfriend (but never for the money, honey.) In your car I feel young again: I'm sixteen and blushing, twenty men younger. I close my eyes and suddenly we’re rolling — rolling like kittens in thick piles of money. (I was always with you for the honey, honey.)
Excerpt of an essay from Conversations About Paradise, by Timea Suli.