Creative Fiction: Sex. Trust.

I wonder if the people involved here remember this piece. Again, very different to my normal style of writing because I was experimenting with my form, but still, overwhelming in its symbolism. I can read Freud all over this. And Nietzsche. And a couple of others. Read on.


It is all sex, he had said. The world is built on it; society runs on it; and we are slaves to it.
He told me this, he told me more.

He said it’s what I thought about, when I missed my mother. He claimed it was in my poetry, in my dreams, in my eyes, my life. "It’s not just you. Everyone. Thus, is the world.", he declared.

Then she came. Like fresh product in butcher’s paradise. She smiled. I felt butterflies. All sex, he said. I ignored him.

I talked to her. She was weak. I held her. She leaned on me. It’s all sex, his voice echoed.

She wrote to me. Told me I healed her. I had only held her. For I was in love. No, sex, he reprimanded. I disagreed. Showed him her words. That’s sex too, He said.

I don’t see it. I see a small girl, afraid to meet anyone’s eye, hugging the notebook in her hand. She writes her fears, her wonder, her joys, and her blunders in it. Then she wrote to me. Trust. It’s not all sex. I told him. It’s trust.

He’s jealous. I think. He ignores me now. I miss him. His cynical point of view. She’s mine now. And I'm hers.

We’re happy. Still no sex. Just trust. I wish he would understand. If only he would hold someone in need. If only he would open his heart. Then he would know too. Trust.