The Comedian's Mistress

The Comedian’s Mistress

By Muriel Palanca

I made love to you yesterday, but I don’t think you noticed.  The funny thing is, I didn’t notice either, because we were too busy fucking for dear life and you had my wrists pinned above my head. I can fake it like the best of them so I said “You can own me, baby, but you’ll never make me beg.”

Because I’ll meet your forest fires with hell hounds, devouring every inch of you, consuming all your hidden corners, clawing at every slick curve. You defile me on every surface and I’m your willing slave. Colliding against brick walls instead of softening blows. Crushing tongues with punch lines, clashing teeth with clavicles, applauding into tornadoes.

We’ll take it any way, unwrapping hard candy with our mouths, bending over just to see the edge behind me. Fronting like it’s never been better, because it hasn’t. We need this. Pulling my hair back so I can see the sky, gripping your chalice like rosary beads in a brothel. Thundering with the sound of longing and panting and moaning and silence.

We shatter the way broken mirrors form stained glass windows and you paint me filthy with your luscious rain leaving butter cream frosting between my breasts and sugar inside my thighs. It’s a delicious mess of dirty things entwined in limbs and ecstasy.

Lying spent on your ashes and being reincarnated into your carnal suffering. It’s an awakening, blessing this sovereign offering with saffron and cherry blossoms. What we do is sacrilege and, baby, god damn us for making sin so beautiful.

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mean it.

Not the words I cried when I came, but the things I felt between the blooming of deliciously sore bruises and prayers spoken with saliva and scratches. Moments of crippling vulnerability that itched just below the surface of our friction.

I’m yours if you’ll have me.

All of me, not just the pieces tangled in your fingers or my residual orgasm trapped in your taste buds. I’m tired of wondering if your chicken will cross this road so, I’m yours if you’ll have me.

And if not, then would you so kindly disappear? Because you’re filling up the vacancy in my heart like the ghost of a one night stand that lasted way past midnight and I’m hung up on you like wind chimes playing the same notes in a different tune. Your goodbye kisses are like drowning in a kiddie pool. A struggle somewhere between going under and wishing it went deeper. But I can’t dwell on it because…

Your wife is calling and you must go. She’s keeping your bed warm, between the sheets in your hotel rooms. She’s a crowd of nameless faces in the darkness and her laughter is your favorite sound in the entire world. She’s your cities and skylines, airplanes and street signs.

She’s Los Angeles and D.C and Vegas and Baltimore. She’s every place you need to be. Every place that isn’t here…and she’ll always be your favorite destination. 

**Can you relate? Have you ever loved someone who was married to their job and/or made you an option instead of a priority? Or have you been that person? I’d love to hear your thoughts!