Fiction is Based on Reality, and Reality is Based on Nothing At All

He fucks me like he’s afraid I’m going to run, screaming, out of this room at any moment because the big, ugly monster of him while we’re fucking might be the worst thing that’s happened to me all week. He fucks me like he doesn’t want me to leave, because me leaving would destroy the fragile universe of orgasm that he is careening towards so sweetly in this very moment. He fucks me like everything isn’t going to be okay, but everything is okay right now, and right now is all we have, so he has to fuck me with the urgency of now like the emergency of everything falling apart is just moments away. And I lap it up because the apotheosis of fucking like this is about to come crashing down on both of our heads, after which he will hold onto me like a fading memory of the happiest moment of a distant childhood. Like I am threatening to disappear at the blink of an eye.

So I grab his face and look him in the eye so I can see what is inside him while he is fucking me like this. At which point I go tumbling immediately into an erotic void, because there is nothing human in him as his eyes rip like teeth into the flesh of the thoughts in my mind. Because what did I expect to see in his eyes because what have I seen in the eyes of so many other men when they are fucking me. Because mostly I have only seen the guilt in the eyes of men who are fucking me, who feel badly for the pleasure that they think they are taking at my expense. I have seen the self loathing of men who do not want to see my face while they fuck me because if he can see my face, then I can see his, and he hates himself too much to be seen while fucking. I have seen the unfulfilled wanting in the eyes of men who are fucking me, I have seen the confusion between sex and love. I have seen men want me to love them while they are fucking me, and I have seen the dismay when they realized that I could not. I have seen men want to be alone, and I have seen men wanting to be with anyone else while I am looking in the eyes and we are fucking. But not him.

His eyes are like flames while he is fucking me, and there is no written transcription of easily defined emotion pulsing from inside his mind and into mine. In fact, there is nothing, except a total abandonment of self until his existence has reached the animal level, and here I am, getting fucked by a man with the eyes of a dog. Which isn’t a bad thing, to be stripped away from all the human trappings of self doubt and self loathing and self satisfaction that is tacked onto the eye contact of so many men I have fucked before. It’s not like that with him as I look him in the eyes and suddenly I am seeing his most elemental self as he succumbs to the louche ribaldry of just straight fucking, and just straight fucking me, and we are fucking, and that’s all that is happening because that is all that we have in this very moment. He is pure sex, and he is absolutely gone from this moment, and I wonder where has he gone? Has he ascended to heaven with the ecstasy of sex with me? Has he traversed into a world where there is no pain and there is no hurt because his dick in my pussy is the best place to be? Or is he in hell with his demons, writhing and wailing, which is where he belongs, and I can tell that his experience of sex transcends the average human being’s experience of sex. And I wonder if that is because of something traumatic in youth or something wonderful in old age. All I know is that I am being whisked away to wherever he is with him, because I am succumbing to fucking with him in my arms.