From the author: Love's a funny thing.
A dark girl, a cinnamon and cardamom girl. A married girl. She was hard, cold standing against a hard cold world, soft and warm lying against me. She was my one secret love, a long time ago.
I was nobody, but for a little bit of time she counted me first among her secrets.
Midnight was our hour, and a lonely country crossing was our spot. We clung, we twined, we fucked fast, hard and hungry on the train tracks. I can still feel the rough wood and smooth steel, rails like ice if it was a cold night, welcome cool in summer.
Black coffee eyes, a mane of black hair sweeping back thick from low on her crown. Swelling wedge of coarse hair between her thighs, dark as the bottom of the ocean. Cinnamon brown skin hot under my hands. Naked together under her husband's greatcoat that nearly swept the ground when she snuck out of his house wearing nothing beneath but red shoes on her little brown feet.
She had only one rule, but it was a different one rule every night. The rule that we not speak. The rule that I not let her touch the ground. The rule that we were not to touch one another but at the point of sex, so that I heedlessly tore my rotator cuff holding myself above her and feeling nothing but her divine molten heat engulfing my half a foot of mortal flesh, emerging into cold air, again, again, again. Together, apart, together, apart. Apart.
That last night. Her one rule: we were not, no matter what, to stop short, not to stop at all, not until I came. Not even with a roaring freight shaking the tracks, bearing down with its glaring light throwing our shadows ahead of us as I labored on top of her. Shadows shortening, drawing in, I could feel five thousand tons of train heading for my quick-time rhythmically bucking ass. Writhing beneath me, laughing, trapping me with her strong legs, she screamed in my ear, "Come in me or die!", screamed louder than the rumbling cadence of metal wheels. Louder than the whistle.
Even now, so many years on, and she so many years dust ... when I hear that whistle far off in the night, it brings me a cold sweat, and a cold ache in my long-gone right foot, and the ghost of a hard-on.
This story originally appeared in Out of the Gutter Online.