Written by Chaenomeles
22 Apr 2017
Vulnerability and death to the fantacy
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2 minute read
I squat poised over the keys, shallow breath gives away the uncomfortable tension held in each finger. I can feel my hot, heart-thumping desire to connect and explore intimately yet... I'm hesitating, feeling uneasy. Excitement blurs with nausea and revulsion. Judgments leak through the seals of decorum, their gnarled fingers picking at my shame and guilt.
I'm ready to delete the account, again!
Click browse once more - the same profiles - again, into each one, inviting contact, connection, pleasure, delight, excitement, laughter, play, joy, appreciation... yet I haven't, I don't. Cycling through each one they taunt me: we're still here, waiting to hear from you.
What am I waiting for? The permission is there: say hi, speak to us, make contact, let's meet and see what sparks; yes, we're still here, we want to hear from you...
Being suspended in this limbo feels like a come-down after a hit of some mind-altering substance - that empty, dissatisfied feeling of a fleeting and unsustainable elation withdrawing in one great hurry. Lying naked in a dirty, empty bath after the water has drained away.
I imagine no one's read this far. Vulnerability, shame - who wants that. Where's talk of dripping, wet pussy wanting to be thumped and bashed by the red-hard cock that explodes in a fountain of cum for everyone to drink, be merry and live orgasmically every after? I'm tired of the salty fantasy that dehydrates my soul. I want to feel hot breath, taste juicy flesh and hear primal moans. But... but?
I'm here to find that out, to feel this discomfort, be confronted by my guilt and shame. To suffocate in the humiliation. This is not pleasurable, it's excruciating. One eye is on the exit... the other wanders towards the possibility of what's beyond my ring of fear.