I like it when you’re my dirty girl.
It’s odd for me to even let myself think that because it’s so…incorrect. We’re both good girls, good women, raised in households that expect us to wear slips under our dresses, hose no matter what the temperature, to cross our legs properly, and to never, ever say bad words. The public must be the same as the private: clean, wholesome, and sacred.
So sacred… I think of you, of your body, and of our intimacies as sacred. But, I also think of them as dirty, as naughty, as filthy (that’s one of my favorite words–say it, feel it–it’s my favorite because it’s so visceral and it’s real and it’s messy; I like it when you’re messy).
I love it when you can’t form letters into words; when you’re choking on your own air because all of you, even the very breath in your body, has betrayed you and it’s focused on gettingthere to that place where it’s okay that your legs are splayed open, your skirt is hiked up, and you are bare and naked and open to me and you trust that I will respect you in the morning, in the moment after, in the the moment itself–
Because I do. Respect you, that is, I do respect you and I respect you more for being willing to be vulnerable with me; to show me this side that the public will never see. They know of petticoats and gentle smiles; they see pretty hair and perfect etiquette. They don’t see you swearing and praying and blaspheming all that exists under the heavens and in the sea; they don’t know of how you smear your lipstick and toss your hair and beg me to stop and to keep going and to stop and to–
I like it when you’re my dirty girl. I like your smooth thighs and your curved arse and your proud breasts and your hidden hips. I like your pert nose and your long fingers and I love your mouth, I love your mouth and all the things you say with it and all the things you do with it. I love our messy, dirty kisses and our filthy, naughty deeds.
But you know what I like most of all? That I’m your dirty girl. (Don’t lie. You know you love it too).