A Collection of Spectacles


Everyone can see on my face when I’m pissed. I got so drunk I can’t feel anything but anger. Maybe I should take a break from the internet. K found this stupid shit. What do I have to say for myself? Nothing, other than I’m an awful girlfriend but at least I’ve realized it now. I can’t fuck as much as I want to, constant pain in my body stops me. My only solace is wrapped up in grief, how fitting. If I don’t learn to bite my tongue I’ll die a grifter.

I let you know all the ways in which everyone is fucking me over and then you fucked me over too. Fucking shit. I wanted to be naked emotionally to match my unclothed form when we fuck too, but forget it. I can’t trust anyone. No wonder everyone in nyc is so jaded.

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In the space between the first time I meet someone and when I fuck them, I’m watching carefully, tracing lines of desire across their skin. The things that we do while we fuck are our kin, birthed from interactions between us, molded and shaped by every exchange. Verbal transactions during seemingly mundane moments are exposed during that physical dance we do.

I can’t wait to let loose on my bf sexually like I used to. Smother him under the weight of my ass. Tell him I want to get filled with cum whenever I feel like it and he can’t stop me. We both know the only way I can get wet at this point is through degrading him. We’re just dancing around the obvious, cosplaying like normal people, humping away. If he wants me to stay regardless, that’s what it’ll have to be. He wants it anyway. That’s the thing about submission, it’s really you placing vested interest in something (abstractly incapsulated in another human) that you would give up everything for.

I love to top primarily anyway, but I fear if I sub to you I’ll expose myself to shitty treatment. Instead I wait, jumping from app to app, site to site, leaving digital breadcrumbs. Fearful as always, because straight men hate whores. It’s a fact. I could fantasize about spreading my legs, watching you move my hips all day. I’m more infantile in some ways, I’m sure. Sending songs, pressing play, watching a billion things that probably don’t belong to me. Open me up and let me soak you in, not in a desperate way, but with a slow confidence, the way flowers naturally tilt towards the sun.


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