The truth is I’m not really inspired to write these days. My mind feels flaccid after my workdays – long, arduous, and peopled – are finished. Fiction takes space and breath to create. Maybe I’m overthinking it. I don’t pretend to do art, but whatever this not-art is that I do takes energy.
It might be that sex and imagination are the same to me now. I don’t want to fuck any more than I want to write. I don’t sleep well, and that makes me cranky and badly tuned. Orgasms help me sleep, but don’t make me work for it.
I’ve never been a romantic woman, but what little I had in me might be dead now. When my husband is horny, I’m happy to spread my legs and let him hump me. I don’t care if he just wants to get off. A two-minute fuck is fine. He always makes sure that I come, too, like a true lover and a gentleman. He loves to eat me out, or sometimes when he finishes he rolls off and immediately rubs me to completion. It’s good. He knows how to do it well. He knows how to get the job done.
Every once in a blue moon he goes down after he’s come in me. I like this especially well. It conjures all kinds of naughty feelings; woman-on-top and cuckoldy kinds of feelings. If I fucked another man, would he go down on me then? I think he would.
But honestly I’d rather masturbate than fuck most of the time. There’s no art to my self-pleasure just like there’s none to my writing. It’s an animal act, a ritual I’ve performed thousands of times in the dark. Hasty rubbing, wet folds, the sloppy sounds of the beginning and ending of all things and a big bang for the finish. With a cherry on top?
My job, like so many, is online now. My desk faces the bedroom. At first I closed the lid of the laptop when undressing lest someone see. Or, god forbid, when doing something amorous. After awhile, I started to forget and leave the lid open, the little glass eye of the webcam dark but ever-present. I feel that stir of being watched even though the green light is off. I think it could be on, secretly. I’ve heard about that before: hackers accessing cameras to get an illicit glimpse, hoping to catch someone in the act.
So that little glass eye on the laptop makes me shiver and I don’t close the lid anymore. I undress right in front of it, fuck under its dead gaze, spread my legs and finger myself in full, middle-aged splendor right in front of it. The green light has never turned on, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts.
Then the loop begins again as my imagination reboots: camera, stranger, nudity, a dare, sucking, cumming, dreaming. My husband using me like a living sex doll, watering my fantasies with his needs. Work and weariness, sometimes wanting to die and others wanting to ride, to rock my hips, to feel something hard inside and remind myself about the uncanny pendulum of lust and death.
In the end, life comes down to friction. Too little and we lose our grip and slide away into the void. Too much and we are ground down into powder. But maintain just enough friction for enough time and something nice might happen.
4 thoughts on “Friction and Fiction”
So much in here that I resonate with . I have add that you do your no art very well. These are crazy times and when you layer this over lives that are searching, wondering in the abyss, things become charged in a highly unpredictable manner.
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there are ways of opening up your glass eye to allow certain people access.
I’ve dabbled, but the reality isn’t as nice as the fantasy.
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Maybe you just haven’t had the right experience yet