A Collection of Spectacles


I’m really scrambling and trying to make sure my boyfriend has a good birthday. He keeps protesting that he doesn’t want to do anything and that he doesn’t care, but I feel like that’s just something people say and don’t mean.

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I awoke to burning nasal passages, red eyes, and a heavy head. “Does anyone have a fucking Advil?” I miss the days when I was crazy as opposed to filled with apathy and easily discouraged. My brain felt as if it was swelling, pressing against its walls, pushing me, begging me to do something with my day for once.

The afternoon before, I nervously paced around the room as I waited for him to arrive. When the bell finally rang, I quickly shut my computer and placed it beside my bed before I opened the door. We are always brief when it comes to “hellos” and this time was no different. Minutes later I straddled his face as thick white ropes of fluid, leftovers from early morning sex with my boyfriend, filled his mouth. My legs shook violently and uncontrollably as I pressed down on his flickering tongue. His scruffy face chaffed my thighs like a brillo pad, abrasive and harsh, while his warm mouth gently teased and coaxed out every last bit of cum.

He always has the same look on his face the moment after, a weird mix of exhaustion, relief, and sadness, as if his return to reality is a reluctant one. We fumbled through a menial conversation about adolescence and I had hoped for some reason that he would find me interesting, although I knew I was simply an interchangeable part of sorts. Twenty minutes post cum he mentioned how awkward goodbyes were for him. I reached my arms out uncomfortably and we shared a brief hug before he made his decent down the stairs.

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