The fact that I must write sexual fantasies in order to be sexually satisfied only proves how lame I am. But here it goes nonetheless:
His groin fits in between my hips with ease, grinding into me as he leans in for a kiss. Our beards entangled like our legs. I wrap my heavy thighs around his body while my hands dance down his back. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, so he puts them everywhere: over my hairy chest, my stomach, and along my hips. I gasp into his mouth as my body demands more of him like my lungs beg for oxygen.
I want him to be water and to allow me to drink him, as I beg to be the earth that his corpse will one day lay in. The heat off our bodies coalesce to create a vortex of intense want and desire, birthing universes and fantasies only we can bring to fruition. My God, how corny and spiritual. I must be drunk off his being.
My mind dies and revives as his fingers travel along my skin. He hasn’t entered me yet, and I’m already inseminated with his skin cells, saliva, and sweat. We make a bed out of the backseat of my car without a care in the world for the attention we could be attracting. Let them watch. For now, it’s the two of us and that’s the only population I want in my world.
Tove Lo’s “Talking Body” plays in the background of my mind as the soundtrack for this scene, stuck on repeat for eternity. But we ignore the bass and the beat of the song for our own rhythm as he finally breaks the barriers of our bodies and we become one. He fits better than a glove. It’s as though he was always part of my body and he’s a muscle I’m only beginning to feel for the first time.
We liquify and meld back into one solid being as we pulse and pound together. Our mouths separate to free the calls of pleasure. I beg God with ohs. He keeps saying fuck. Does he not realize that’s exactly what we’re doing? Tove Lo continues to repeat, “On and on and on, on and on and on, on and on and on.”
It lasts for eternity, but it ends too soon. I want beyond eternity, beyond Alpha and Omega, beyond the Big Bang. I want a love only a non-existent entity such as God could understand. Completely unreal yet completely true. There’s no self-preservation in our love. We don’t have a primal instinct to fuck only to pass on DNA. No babies come from this. Only our feelings, our emotions, our bodies slamming together to become one, to feel each other in one another’s bodies, to prove our existence in one another’s eyes.
Finished, our spiritual selves – flying with the Angels – begin the descent back to Earth. Our identities dissect as we separate and become two. The lifetime we shared ends and it’s time to go back on our unrelated paths.
My mind’s attachment to reality falls apart as I realize none of it was real. The fantasy didn’t become reality. It’s now only a memory, and it’s all I have of feeling enough.
What does that say about me? The only way I can feel complete relies purely on something I can never have. I speak of existential, unspoken love.
Ain’t anything more vague than that, kid.