When Strangers Click, a 2011 documentary about online dating.
It reminds me of that famous Margaret Atwood quote: “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.” It also reminds me of something written by one of the mods of Sex Worker Problems: “Misandry irritates. Misogyny kills.”
I mean, it’s just true.
i’m comfortable in my boots. it’s taken a bit of practice, a bit of foot powder in my socks, but i could keep them on all day, if i wanted to. i’ve slept in them, feet hanging off the bed, or planted on the ground as i sleep sitting up on the couch. i brush them, wash the salt and mud off when necessary. my favorite look is boots, socks, mesh shorts, tank top, basically my underclothes. powerful, lazy, male.
you’ll never know this because you left. you never came.
you’ll never know how i grew my mohawk out like a good boi, and now it’s so long it’s brushed to the side so i’m not blinded, like a sheepdog. how i pull almost all the hair in the back into a little ponytail. 4 maybe 5 inches now, almost a year of work from bald, only trimming ithere and there for split ends. you won’t see this, because you’re gone but goddamn if you aren’t present in my thoughts, in my anger and pain and lust.
i can’t get the sensation of you fucking me out of my skin. that’s the burden of going so long without sex; the last partner is the one that remains under the skin until someone replaces the memory, maybe does it better. that’s both a curse and a gift, waiting a year at a time to have sex for a couple of days, then back to none. sometimes the person is the best lay i have had, and it’s true you were fantastically good at what you did, given i have always wanted to be fucked by a man who knew how to handle his cock. the woman before you tried hard but was undisciplined, a teenager. you were a man, despite the silicone substitute. you had fucked others with that cock, and you fucked me, too. then you fucked me up, and left.
i masturbate in my boots. heavy chain collar, lock pressing into my larynx, digging into my neckflesh. i push a cock maybe the size of what you had, hard, bump it into my cervix. let it rest as i press a vibrator into my clit.
i’ve learned new tricks, namely the other request you left with me before you got onto that plane never to return to New York or me. i started to play with anal sex. i bought my first plug and found it unsatisfyingly small. i got a new one, and just like Goldilocks, it was too big. then, when i finally got desparate for a cock to fill my cunt like you did, i found a plug that was just right. two for one. it hurt the first time i used it, i wasn’t used to stretching that open, thankfully i was high enough to relax into the push. used plenty of lube. a condom.
then, like the greedy boislut i am, i pushed the new cock into my as well, it’s girth impressive.
i couldn’t contain the sounds, sounds you knew in the blooming sticky summer in my little bedroom, fan blowing us. a mewling sound, a whimper as i can’t contain my nerve-endings from expanding and twitching. the rush of blood into every fat vein in my crotch. i was overwhelmed, and it didn’t take me long to cum. cum again. watching porn helped. thinking of you didn’t.
one day i’ll belong in my bones again, before puberty and metabolic disorders stole away that self-confidence. i’ll have the beard to match my bearness. i’ll have the hip-loose swagger and the cocksure grin. but for now, i’m stuck with your ghost and these toys and orgasms like only i have ever been able to give myself.