All Relationships are Doomed to Fail

Mild moments of bed-play celebrated the signing of Julian Wilson (to Nike 6.0), at an after-dark collab with Stab. Photos by Akila Berjaoui And the rain is falling outside. It has been falling for maybe hours or maybe days but the people have lost track because the people are enthralled. Wet. Sexually charged and losing control. Rain. Splashing as it hits the pool. Splashing on the deck. Inside there is only steam. From breath. From body. From lascivious thoughts and lascivious hands and a stray cigarette or two or three. The people are not pausing to wonder about eternal significance. There is only right now. There is only right here. The Komune. The Gold Coast. Australia. And the music pumps. And the steam rises. And the rain is falling. Pushed up against a corner, near the bar, shielded by curtains, is a bed. A gorgeous bed small but finely accented with fresh white linen and pillows the shape of clouds. And, a gorgeous woman stands at its foot cradling a Canon 5D. Her eyes smoke. The people are drawn toward the bed, two by two. A man with black hair whose girlfriend huddles outside, black streams of mascara coursing down her red cheeks, gently slides his left hand down toward the panty line of a just-turned-18 blonde. Her skin reacts to his touch. It tingles and turns into a goose’s flesh. He breathes out. Hard. “The people are drawn toward the bed, two by two. A man with black hair whose girlfriend huddles outside, black streams of mascara coursing down her red cheeks, gently slides his left hand down toward the panty line of a just-turned-18 blonde. Her skin reacts to his touch. It tingles and turns into a goose’s flesh. He breathes out. Hard.” The gorgeous woman lifts her camera and clicks one picture, two. She has seen this 18 year old already once tonight. An older boyish man with a few bad tattoos had opened her legs with his knees and pressed himself onto her. She had clicked pictures then, too. And then it is empty. The corner completely vacant. Because something else is supposed to happen. And then it does. Ordained. First one blonde, then two, then three, climb through the curtain and slither up and on the bed. All of them gorgeous. Possessed with beauty. Two with green eyes, one with brown. Their breasts can be seen because their white shirts are wet and also one has been tugged violently down. And the steam rises. The gorgeous woman raises her camera at the moment that a fourth woman leads a handsome blond boy into the space. His eyes sparkle. The party is for him. This party is for him. He is drawn to the bed and pulled up and pulled on. His shirt is taken from him at first sensually then abruptly. The gorgeous woman clicks and her heart begins to race. She can feel the blood coursing through her wrists. A brunette slithers in and places her hand just below the waistline of the boy’s black jeans. Her fingernails are painted black and she squeezes where she should and he throws his head back. A blonde puts her lips on his neck. Another rubs his shoulder. Another rubs herself against his arm. They are closing around him. Closing in. And he closes his eyes. The gorgeous woman clicks. Someone spills their drink. Sticky mixes with steam mixes with breath mixes with wet. And clothing is taken. The gorgeous woman clicks and it becomes too much to bear. Almost. She throbs. And clicks. And feels. And wants. Outside in the still-falling rain the girlfriend, black mascara coursing down her red cheeks, of a man with black hair thrusts her tongue down the throat of another woman, a red head, and thinks, “All relationships are doomed.” – Chas Smith.