Players in a Scenario – Joanna Rafael Goldberg

January 16, 2020

They liked each other, called it chemistry, got in bed and stayed there. Soon they coupled, wanting only the other for intimate endeavors. He learned what she liked; she learned what he liked. The two would eventually overuse what they knew until those motions turned routine. For awhile they escalated the gestures of their congress, but pushing boundaries too went stale. Too much of a good thing turned anal banal, every taboo milquetoast. 

        During a midmorning romp on the tile floor of their kitchen, he looked at her mid-pump and, in his regular non-dirty cadence asked “how do you feel?” She replied by looking at a fake watch, playfully. 

        “And how do you feel?” She asked in her normal voice. He mimicked a big yawn.

        “Let’s do it like we’re in a silent film,” he suggested. She was willing to really commit.  

        “You be the director and I’ll be the starlet.” She loved to feel exploited. 

        “Look at me.” Intense eye contact rang his every bell. 

        “Now, you be a bandit and I’ll be an upper class passenger,” she requested.

        “Give me all your booty, bitch.” He said with a scarf tied around the lower half of his face. 

        “You play the train and I’ll play the hobo and hop on your caboose.”

        “Choo choo,” she chugged on all fours. 

        “You be the detective and I’ll be the corpse that was tossed out of the moving train,” she panted, “ready, Dick?”

        She played dead.    

        “I get to tie myself to the train tracks and you rescue me. Then next time, you can be the villain who ties me to the train tracks and also be the train that runs me over.  

        “I’ll be the mustache twirling villain again” 

        “You look devilishly handsome with a mustache.”

        “So, I’ll play the villain and you’ll play the damsel I victimize, then we’ll repeat that but you’ll use my mustache to tie yourself to the tracks and the train will kill us both.” 

        “Then you be the conductor and I’ll be the whistle.” So she blew him. 

        “You be a commuter and I’ll be your stop and you can get off.”

        “You be the person committing suicide by jumping on the track and I’ll be the train that knocks the life out of you.” 

        “I’ll be the train-tracks and you be the earthquake that bends my metal into a fatally squiggly wave.”

        “Hit me.” 

        They don’t like trains anymore.

        The couple kept hunting for novelty. The spine of their copy of the Kama Sutra broke in half. They tried exhibitionism, sadomasochism, and tantric sex; they gave sex-toys a chance; put different appendages in different holes, made love in every room of the house, in a chapel, under a bridge, over the phone. They played cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, and doctor and patient, but after so many rounds of sexy cat and mouse, the only game left to play would be fucking someone else.