But I can no longer get the consistency right, I take a chunk, it still tastes good, so I go back for more, the need to gorge is strong. The hole where I took the first piece is no longer there, it’s so fucking watery it’s shifted back into place, like tectonic plates. It looks as if I had never been there. It happens in bed, upon waking or falling asleep. I woke up from my nap feeling vacuous and disconnected, let’s tentatively say lonely. Something was missing, a huge gaping lack, a pointlessness to my existence, a fragile futility. I went to sleep feeling happy, it was only thirty minutes. I think I dreamed that I had a lover, and that we were stroking my dog, and he was jealous of my lover, so we stroked him more. I almost vomit at my desperation, but not without a tear. And I’m sure if I had a lover, I’d revert back to those times in the past, when I would wake up, my partner sleeping at my side and I would have this moment where I felt as if I didn’t have any idea who they were, as if they were another being entirely. It felt so lonely, so weird, as if it was all fake. Like I was living a lie. I hated that feeling, it was almost like a panic. And I’d wish I was alone. And last year when I lived uncomfortably by myself, I would wake up overwhelmed with loneliness, as if I was the last person on earth or something, it felt so fucking sad and painful. I couldn’t shake the feeling of missing something intently, but I had no idea what that something was. I just knew that I didn’t have it. And the room was so dark, and the bed so cold. In these moments, I feel almost alien. As if I am devoid of something intrinsic to my humanity, and it is that which is lacking. On the cusp of un/consciousness do I encounter myself? I don’t think I understand what I see. I feel as if I am constantly missing the point. And I wonder if it is always there like a background fuzz, this taunting vacuous-ness, the abyss into nothing, the true pointlessness of living. It is farcical when you think about it, the way we move according to rules, on a grid of cues that tell us when to cross the street or push the accelerator. It seems so weird. I flicked through a tv magazine of my mothers the other day, the lists of programmes that keep people going, interviews with soap actresses, their pointlessness felt exaggerated somehow, which in turn felt like it mirrored our own. Why do we want to watch people pretending to live a life? Yet we all do it, and it brings a welcome comfort to watch the mundanity of others’ lives, do we use it as a marker for our own, a way to validate our existence in the echo of their mimesis?  I don’t know where I am going with this, how to taper off without veering off the subject, but frankly I’d rather watch porn. I washed my hair today, and shaved my pussy, in the mild hope that I would get laid. But I don’t even know if I want to get laid, because there are so many variables to our possible union. But yesterday I felt so horny I would have fucked the guy in the supermarket who felt like he was undressing me with his eyes…I almost flirted back, but I began to wonder if I was imagining things. That I was so horny that I had begun to hallucinate. I swear the guy at the passport desk wanted to fuck me too. You see, I’ve crossed over, into a conceited semi-rigid version of myself, where the whole world wants to fuck my luscious hole. I feel more animalistic than I’ve ever felt, and that my senses can radiate my sex for miles. I still can’t believe that bus journey. It was pure sexual energy and body cues, barely a word was exchanged. How interesting if the sexual encounter were only a series of these exchanges, where our bodies were able to do what they liked without the need to verbalise anything. Would dating therefore be obsolete? But I also want to romanticise. I want to be swept off my feet, fucked and adored, with reams of poetic prose written exclusively for me, with sensitive conversations that pour over into the night, dancing and your blood, I want your blood under my tongue, beneath my fingers, your semen caught in my hair, and your salvia between my legs. I want it all. But I am afraid to go to sleep because I cannot bear to feel that lack. That desperate search for meaning in a place where there is no fucking meaning, and that spiral when you dwell on how weird it is to be human, where breathing becomes a challenge as you scrutinise every exhalation. And my dentist says I swallow like a baby, so I try out different techniques until I realise how comforting it is to swallow this way, suckling. Is that why I love sucking dick so much? Yours felt like it was made to fit the contours of my mouth, I could have done it for days. And I feel sad that I will have to find another dick, I imagine what his will be like, wide, really fucking wide, and longer than yours, so long that when we fuck it forces me to orgasm harder than ever before. And he moves slowly, teasing my pussy, then rams it in hard and fast for a few thrusts, then slow again, then fast and we continue this flow until I am almost coming then he fucks me so hard, til all I can see is white, and his sticky insides are all over my tits, as my pussy convulses and trembles.

 

Image credit: Found image