Sex and the city

Autofiction

There were people who just liked to have sex. They read, watched and washed all days. They were one and only with their phones. They couldn’t help thinking about New York City, a regret. Deep inside them was a need to be liked but didn’t care. However they met me, a girl with a field of vision so shallow she almost ate papers. Growing up I had nothing. I ran around with only 10 bucks in my pocket buying a comic book from Japan, doraamon sold at chongqing’s newspaper stand. I devoured it like chocolates. Eating chocolates was my way of submerging myself in feelings. Later after I grew up I masterbated on the bed. Then I ate chocolates full of dark sweet secrets of cocoa, how ashamed it was to hope to be consumed. I read Oliver Sack. He made me cry with his mean words about Mexico, a country long suffering in the shadow of Ottoman Empire. I counted my fingers after I pushed those annoying branches of leaves and flowers away. Etc.