The Orgasm is a Fugitive Event

The campus is a geometry of surveillance: clipped hedges, biometric locks, compost bins that

whisper carbon offset. A year ago, we stood beneath banners for Palestine, throats bright with

failure, voices dissolving like salt in wind. Watched always, never heard. Still, this boy and I fuck

beneath the optics. I mean: the motion-activated lights flicker like nervous testimony, then go dark.

I mean: his hands are cold and curious, almost innocent, until they inherit my history. Outside, the

city’s smart sensors calibrate for anomaly—shatter, siren, unlicensed joy. But moans slip under the

grid. Desire is a sanctioned frequency. Isn’t that its own violence? He unbuttons my shirt like it’s

a form in triplicate: slow, impersonal, binding. Later, I’ll wonder if the system registered my breath

spiking. My voice saying yes like it had just refused its own body. We are taught to consent like we

tick a box on a return policy. Skip the terms. Assume the loss. So when he grips my throat mid-

thrust, I taste nothing but static. I kiss back like I’m exhaling a blueprint for escape. The city

twitches. Moves on. Somewhere, a man pisses into an abandoned phone booth. Somewhere, a

child renames each scar after a star. Somewhere, a girl erases every message she’s ever sent and

calls that privacy. Or love. After, in the mirror, I study myself like a failed encryption. My

body: an unauthorised archive. My thighs: a wet transcript. I do not cleanse the record. I blur it

like a sigil. I take the long way home, past shadows that don’t report back. I don’t want to be

witnessed. I want to be misremembered. I want the night to file me under a corrupted memory.

Something the algorithm deletes because it couldn’t tell if it was a threat or a dream.