You don’t think about…that thing
The disease
The thing inside him
That isn’t him
But that’s a part of him nonetheless
An unwanted visitor
A ghost alive in a living body
A voyeur
Watching you
Take off your clothes
It’s with us now, you think
The sickness
It’s like a third person
We feel…watched
He touches you
And you think
Is this part of him clean?
His hands
His fingers
The tips of his fingers
His…
Is this part sick?
Is this part damaged?
Is this part something
I should be careful with?
You go gently
But he goes rough
As if he’s trying to prove something
As if he wants to demonstrate his strength
To show you that there’s nothing to be afraid of
And you think…
Well, this is silly, but…
You think of pregnant women
How sex with them is fine
It’s more than fine, right?
It’s healthy or something?
But you feel…weird
You feel so weird…doing it
Your sister told you that she and her husband
Never have sex when she’s pregnant
From the moment they find out
Until a month after the baby arrives
No
Sex
And you think—
Well, first you think:
You’re my sister
Why are you telling me this?
And secondly, you think—
That seems about right
Sex is this thing between two people
Not two people and a baby
Not two people and a terminal illness
Laying in bed with us
Mocking our actions
Saying ‘Should you really be doing this?
One of you is going to get hurt’
You try not to cry after it’s over
But you can’t help yourself
You have just engaged in a celebration of life
With someone who is having life pulled from them
So much faster than those around them
You imagine bits and pieces of this man
Rotting away like fruit left on a vine
And falling to the ground
A leg, an arm, an ear
This image makes you smile
But then it repulses you
And you turn away
Tears still locked in the corners of your eyes
The man you’re with touches you
He touches your shoulder
And asks if you’re all right
Am I all right, you think
You’re asking me if I’m…
It’s harder to be him than it is to be you
And yet, in some ways, it’s easier
You think, you hope, you assume
Sex is best when it’s just sex
People tell you it’s better with love
Or intimacy
Or marriage
Or danger
Or toys
Or role-playing
Or new
Or old
But the truth is, when it’s just sex
It’s so wonderful
Because when you begin putting things on top of it
It begins to buckle
When you put death on top of it
Dying
Sex…
Begins to crumble
Under the weight of it
And nothing weighs more than death
You pull the blankets up to your chin
Suddenly cold
Suddenly very aware
Of how naked you are
The man you’re with
The dying man
He traces an invisible line
Down your arm
With just one finger
A clean finger?
A healthy finger?
A pure finger?
…Who knows?
And he says ‘Thank you’
You say ‘Don’t thank me, I don’t—‘
But he stops you
With that finger
On your lips
‘Thank you’
And it’s just enough
Enough to do what, you’re not sure
But…
It’s enough
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