Men in different area codes,
fucking like they’re trying to outrun something—
in motel rooms with the blinds half-open,
in backseats,
on kitchen counters,
with names they won’t remember,
or ones they shouldn’t have remembered.

In 818, he pulls her hair
while she rides him slow,
one hand on her throat,
the other gripping her thigh like a lifeline.
He calls it dominance—
but he just doesn’t know how to ask for love.

In 773,
he fucks her from behind,
eyes on the mirror,
watching her mouth fall open,
chest slapping against cheap sheets.
No words,
just sweat and grunts and the kind of silence
that says this isn’t going anywhere.

In 214,
he eats her out like he needs it more than she does,
tongue working circles until her whole body arches,
and when she finally lets go,
he closes his eyes like it’s a prayer answered.

There’s a guy in 404
who texts “come through” at 2 a.m.,
and when she does,
he barely says hello—
just pushes her up against the door,
pants halfway down,
his mouth on her neck,
his need showing through every shaky breath.
After, he scrolls his phone,
her head on his chest,
and they both pretend it means nothing.

In 619,
he begs her to sit on his face—
and she does,
grinding slow while his hands dig into her hips,
moaning like the world’s ending
and this is the only way out.

Men in different area codes,
fucking to feel,
fucking to forget,
fucking just because it’s the only time
they let go of everything else.
Bodies used like confessions—
some honest,
some desperate,
all of them
looking for something
they don’t have the words to name.