A Very Short Story – Random notes taken by a mobile keyboard
It is the taste that gnaws you first. The taste of loveless sex. The mechanistic, greasy aftertaste of a meaningless meeting. To mate. The prostitution of a wonderful thing.
The emptiness. The disgust of skin on skin with a foul smelling stranger who has just sucked your cock. How even the strongest of brushing can’t take away the memories of the taste. Of the writhing supin body as it entered you. The frustration of an unfulfilled desire to have the one person you actually want to make love to only in an imagined presence. The want to push the blame on her. he waste of money. So easy it would be then.
The goose bumps of disgust. The cold shiver – of an anonymity broken. The yearning for an irreverence that does away with public face. Too young – a conservative at heart.
This is my last. The opprobrium of myself is too much to bear. Silly, but perversely necessary. The feelings of inadequacy, the glances, the looks, th gestures towards an alien, will have to be managed another way. Somehow. Not this. Again.
Feeling cheated. This Mephistophelean bargain of an insatiable desire. The words which clamour within which cannot be told aloud. Thoughts which have no words. The layers of self repugnance. Of thoughts yet to bear, in the light of day, the lacerating truth, which will inevitably be shafted into a corner. The lesson that is hoped has been leant. The tired acknowledgement that this is not good.
She was ugly. Drunk. Stiff. Why? Is it the money? She knew my countrymen – the added burden of a stereotype. Of being a nobody is a generalisation of somebodies. The ejaculation – truncated by the robotic nature of the movement. The log beneath.
The constant drone of voices I love from back home. Of voices I want. Now. To prevent this descent into a hell I must not plunge into.
Have half descended.
This hole. This moral uprightness of somebody in the public and another in the private. This Janus duality.
Of her back home. Petite. My love.
I need her. I miss her. Even now, it is in every sinew of my body. That I can’t live without her. Disgust of the preset weighted against the hope of the future.
Hope. That is all I have.
I hate myself.
Hope. That is all I want.
I need her. This instant. To cherish, to hold, to breathe, to touch, to feel, to sense, to connect. All of her.
This is a half moon night. Back home, they would say that anything begun now would bea fruit.
Waning moons are bad. Perhaps the Full Moon is too.
This is madness.
I love her. I. love. her.