This morning’s writing…

It aches.

I want her to take me, to use me for her pleasure. I want to be taught, for her to show me what to do to make her scream in blissful orgasm again and again and again. I need her to fuck me, to fill me deep with anything she has — fingers, fists, tongue, toes, toys or some surprise that only she would dream…

And I don’t even know her. I’ve never seen her. Or, I suppose more truly she’s every girl I see. Every woman I know. Every boot and skirt and tight pair of jeans and each beautifully ample breast and those barely-a-mouthful gems and her scent — oh, the intoxicating scent of Woman! — and she is everywhere, sitting beside me on the bus, standing in the coffee shop, walking toward me on the street (and then right on by.)

I find her, and I try to speak. I don’t know why I bother — she sees the clumsy. She knows the awkward. She senses the fear. She pulls away… or pulls her Boy closer. She thinks he’s a “man.” She doesn’t know: there is no such creature. “I would love to… but my boyfriend would kill me!”

Then sometimes… sometimes the beautiful ones stay, they talk. They share my life, but from forever and a fortune away. Whether across the county line or the length of the country, there is distance I cannot cross and cost that I cannot afford. She is Aphrodite, she is Death, she is Frozen Witch, she is Faerie and she is Puppy… and she seems impossible to ever touch. She is sister, she is friend, she might someday be lover, but today she is only the wind… I hear her, I know she breathes and sighs and her gentle coolness touches my heart, but she is never truly with me.

So today I turn once again to the manufactured images, the sights and sounds that pretend they are her… the carefully crafted, entirely artificial cries of ecstasy and horribly faked fucking — and my hands will help me forget the ache, for a small time.

Only she can take the pain forever.

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