My lost Cat

We arranged to meet in Oxford - halfway
between us, our first meeting but we’d been
fucking for months. It started online, a
messenger service, engaging our fan-
-tasies together. I felt like it was
your hand on me and together we could
connect and engage with none of the fear
or nervousness or unfulfilled prom-
-ises. Sweat, cum, heat, I could almost smell
you as we moved together - breath and lust
across a country. Then we spoke for the
first time - exchanged pictures - your accent threw
me to begin with; the Birmingham twang
offputting at first. But I got past it
and we moved together again breathless,
sweaty and intensely private. Inti-
mate, full of urging. I would often con-
-tinue to fuck you with cum splattered a-
-cross my hand, reluctant to disappoint.
So we agreed to meet in Oxford. A
disaster as it turned out - my car broke
down and you got stopped by the police going
down a one way street. We never met. I
wonder what you said to your husband. It
cooled for a while then - trust lost I suppose -
both realising how close we’d come to
throwing it all away. Another girl
and I didn’t call you for a while, lead-
-ing our separate lives. I tried to call
you eventually but got no res-
-ponse. Finally your sister called. You were
dead. Killed, she said. Stabbed to death. Taken from
me. I thought of your husband. You’d told me of
him but kept my fears to myself - you were
too far from me. So much that could have been
something else. That night I thought of you a-
-gain. Imagined your breasts, your sex, your neck.
Touched myself with you again - sweat and death -
sex and shame. I fucked you in Oxford as
you wanted to be fucked and you took me
inside you and we were joined. Finally.