I have always contemplated about how I wished to be loved before I ever gave somebody my heart. Yet here I am, twenty strokes deep into a mess my loneliness manifested. Pussy throbbing, ass clapping. I squeeze my breasts as milk drools down to my belly button. My pussy piercing is coated in a cum-milky mess. Illicit moans and sadistic dares leave my fat lips. "Boy, you can't make me finish." Droves of thoughts implode my mind. Is. This. Love.
Below me, strong arms squeeze my thighs. Anointing my body with a false comfort, this man fills my body with his karmic poison. Who has he recently been with? Is he cozy or just horny? A hug I could've left the house with, preceding from my father, may have dampened my conscious to discover this well-explored mess. Half the time I think to myself about my loneliness, crave for touch, and inability to date fair suitors. Casual sex is alright if it's safe. I tell myself this as raw skin etches imaginary stories into the cavity of my body- that is supposed to be deemed most sacred. I'm desirable, I think. Sexy, hot, limitless. I'll wage the war of smudged makeup and lost lashes in the morning. Here I am, but it's not him.
A single mother deserves love, too. Yet I fight battles of diving into late night bars, venues, and poor coasted events hoping that I find that someone. I forgo my sense, into escapades where social media becomes my hope. What if he's on here? What if he's from my past? The worry of changing my phone number and swerving my own luck from binding with my soulmate plagues me. Grocery trips, long hours at work void nothing. I am not searching for somebody, I am waiting for them to find ME. Lies. With a sinister lens, I view other single women of my age battling with baby daddies, craving attention from the first while bashing the last. Poisoning myself I agree that I am supposed to want mine. Happiness isn't found there, routines from long ago and the staple family dynamic tug at me begging me to go backwards. I wish for more, as I still compete with imaginary women that may be wanting who I am seeking.
Styles of hair, nails, clothes, and other adornments serve me as wishes. Things that I can change to find him. Warm, stable, movie-like men cloud my brain. Will I ever find him? I continue to save my coins, gain straight A's and seek my degree. Deep down, I know in my heart that I am scared of a career driven man. I unknowingly want a man in which I am his world because every man I've loved before, had became mine.
I am going to be a virgin until I get married. He will love me softly and protect me loudly. Am I just wishing for a man that is made up? Compromises tend to lead to violence as I cannot escape my form of mind that expects a man to be a myth that I made from disappointment in others. Where do I belong? I am only a source of materials for a man. What I lack in the back, I lack all around. I tell myself soothing defeats to postpone myself from accessing better.
"Cum in me, daddy." I will dare myself now in this organic game. I will dare myself to ponder pregnancies, pH balance calamity and more tread on my mindset. "You better not cum in me." I wage a bigger competitive war on what I wish I could believe. It is his fault if he blows his seed into me just to end in abortion or non fertilization. I paid for the room we are in, why can't I just smoke a joint and be by my lonely?
I close this chapter of scenario that would bring temporary pleasure. I will stay alone, because he is not him.
