I have never been good at small talk. I go to suburban parties and feel out of place. I feign interest. I stifle a yawn. I want to ask you to tell me dirty things about your sex life. I want to argue with you about the existence of God. Instead, you smile with chemically whitened teeth and pass me a tray of appetizers. I’m not interested in where you purchased the smoked gouda. I want you to put down your platter of cheese, pick up your shirt, and show me your scars. How else am I suppose to learn about the world if not by the map of your body, the tight fist of your skin? Clothing is just a pretty camouflage.

I want to feel things. I want to know things by proximity, by the way something bends or resists against the palming of my hand. I want to lean my head to your mouth and feel your words hot on my collar. I want your whispered breath rotten in my ear. Tell me your secrets.

I have Celtic blood that makes me certain I was a sin-eater in another lifetime, or maybe I was the goddess Tiazolteotl, purveyor of filth and lust. I’d squeeze you wicked between my thigh muscles and make you cum, then whisk away your sin in a hot bath of afterward absolution.

I am not offering you absolution here or now.  What I want is certain and more selfish. I want to know that you feel as much as I do, that you too have carried hurt like a belly full of stones.

So, can we just bypass the small talk? I want every single one of you to just give me your dark. I want access to the things that make you sweat in the silence of your night time.

I need to know if your fear is anything like mine.