I’m too tired to touch myself…
so could you please take over for me?
I have a drink in one hand,
leftovers in the other,
and my eyes are fighting
the light of the computer screen.
My mind wants to think about sex,
about a quick and dirty orgasm…
the maintenance variety…
just to relieve my body’s tension
and close my thoughts to the world.
But my cunt is not cooperating.
Sometimes she can be such a bitch like that.
Maybe if you were here
with your head between my thighs,
tongue flicking my clit and
sliding between my lips,
your fingers slipping inside
to find the place that always
my back arch and my legs spread further…
maybe I could muster a little excitement.
But you aren’t.
You’re reading this
So, I’ll watch a little porn instead,
in hopes that I won’t have to work too hard
to get off tonight…
or even worse…
that I won’t be able to at all.
God, I hate nights when I can’t climax.
I try and try…
put every fiber of my physical and mental energy
into coming, and it just won’t goddamn happen.
My thighs become so tired in the struggle
they start to twitch
and my muscles give out.
On nights like this,
I know my thighs and calves
are going to hurt in the morning:
all that isometric tension,
building and building without release.
It’s the definition of disappointment
when not even my trusty vibrator
can get me off.
I go to sleep hardened and hurting and frustrated.
It’s not always like this when you aren’t here.
Most nights, I can lick my fingers,
slip them between the sheets,
spread my thighs and my lips,
roll my fingers around and around my clit,
slip them inside and out,
my palm pressing,
my fingers (first one, then two, maybe three)
striking a beat
working my pussy
into uncontrollable wetness,
a gushing release,
an audible relaxing of the mind and body.
The “little death” really isn’t that little.
It’s quick…a crescendo rising
to an explosive, momentary blindness…
but it isn’t small.
I so wish I could make it last:
that one moment right before…
when the warmth becomes fire
coursing under and over my skin,
down my thighs, up my belly,
between my breasts to my throat,
settling as a brilliant rose flush
in my cheeks.
Even writing this isn’t working.
Which is depressing.