Young Writers Society

I have convinced myself that I am unworthy of love, affection, adoration. Love, only associated with my dreamiest desires and the sad movies I watch on tv. For the day that I might see someone on the street and a spark flies, a look is shared and from there, I will have found all that I have been looking for. Oh what a thought, to think someone might look at me with anything other than a loosening lust that disappears shortly after they start to know me. I am the thing men look at as easy, usable, disposable. I am a convenience, someone used to make others feel better. Taking my love, my energy, my affections and eating it up for their comfort. To get them through a patch of undesirable feelings and leaving me with what was left of them. Emptiness, loneliness, a ghost of who they were. 

Lifeless smiles and empty eyes plague me as I open my thighs and their lips find me in the silence, keeping me from speaking anything other than a moan escaping my throat. Loveless, cold emotionless tongues clashing with teeth and lips as they shove themselves into me. Taking it like I was told to, hands wrap around my throat as my hips thrust to meet theirs. Eye contact is minimal, don’t move that way, your body will look wrong. Sucking their cock, tasting a mix of me and them, gagging at the foulness of our loveless connection. That’s it, such a good girl. Take it and show me how much you love it. I take it all, this is what I am useful for. I want them to want it, to want me, show them how good I am. If I am not worthy of love, then I at least am worthy of this, the power to make them come and to be undone by my hands, my mouth, the apex between my thighs. They’re quickly finished and pushing away from me, leaving me with a mess on my tongue and a taste I wish to rid of in my mouth. There is no warmth, only cold, calculated silence. Pulling their pants on as I wipe myself clean, a dismissive kiss is given as they leave me behind. I am left with nothing as they walk away with everything I believe I have. The warmth between my legs and the softness of my lips disappears on them as I am removed from their brain. Until the next time they are bored with their life, their perspective partners and need something to pick them up. Something easily tossed aside once it’s been used for its purpose.

Undesirable, left alone with my thoughts, I am consumed by emptiness as I wonder what I could do to make them stay. These men of no words and cold touches, what would make them warm? What or who should I be to allow them to see me as someone worth experiencing outside of the bedroom, or the backseat of a car. To be kissed because they find me sweet and wanting, other than a means to keep my mouth shut, to initiate their open desire to fuck me and leave me breathless and shaking after, soiled by their scent and seed. Or maybe I am the problem, lifeless and cold with no desire to truly connect with these men coming and going as they navigate the world in and out of thighs and lips searching for that home to one day call their own. Is it I, whom they return to in hopes of finding warmth and solace? Am I so devoid of emotion that I have convinced myself these men want nothing more than what sex I have to offer?

The thought quickly leaves my mind as I wrestle with truth and falsehood. Right or wrong do not exist between the sheets of my bed and the men who share it. There is only empty pleasure wrapped around us and the avoidance of joyless eyes. Love seems like a fable told throughout generations, passed down unto us, driving hope into our beings so that we might one day find this ancient creation that binds souls and lovers into an eternity of warmth, affection and pure devotion. Something so out of reach, it is only found in old books, seemingly lost letters and somewhere in the stars hidden in the past desperate for us to find it.

Lying on the cold bed, lost to my thoughts and slowly losing all sense of time or hope, I yearn for someone to touch and call my own. Someone to look upon and see happiness within their hooded eyes as they succumb to sleep after a joining of our limbs and souls. Someone to sleep beside, who does not leave the bed empty and frigid upon their departure leaving behind only their scent and the ghost of their seed somewhere between me and the sheets. Waking myself from this fallible dream, I reach for the phone, picking you out of the rest, knowing your own desperate desire to disappear into someone for a moment in time matches my own.

“Are you free tonight?”

We set a time, we set a place.

I am both the used and the user. There is no love, only desperation and impending damnification.