by Cristof Pryor
The mind was a putrid place to be but the Earth didn’t seem to be that bad from afar. He had already matched his record of 5 and didn’t know if he could go for 6. Oscillating between his personal guilt and personal healing, he decided to go for 6.
He was lonely but in the moment of ejaculation he didn’t know it, the weekend malaise took a respite with the aid of lubrication. He threw the tissue in the trash and the acerbity of loneliness set back in. There was a period between cumming and becoming lucid again, and this was his constant state now. He didn’t know who he was anymore or anything for that matter except his fetishes for silly blondes, lavish makeup and anal play.
Numbness saturated throughout his vernal mind exploding with paradoxical thoughts. He was in between himself and himself trying to abate the loneliness only silicone tits can bring on backlit screen. Sitting alone naked, there was nothing to embrace, no skin to imbibe, no thoughts to fuse with.
He was a skilled voyeur now and liked to pay attention to the finite details of the porn stars. Their animal eyes, or the curving toes of a matchless orgasm. He was stable and unerect pondering the strange guiltiness felt with wasting four hours on a delusion, searching for a carnal Atlantis. He wasn’t too sore and figured why stop, he pulled out his lotion and went for number 7. It was 4:43am.
On Monday morning he woke up spry, hale and well being the new record holder and decided to treat himself to the breakfast of champions, the school cafeteria. He got two waffles, scrabbled eggs, bacon, oatmeal, cereal and fruit. He saw Hillary and she came over. He always fantasized about her in class, sometimes to unbearable pain where he would have to excuse himself from class to masturbate in the restroom. She lent out her hand and he shook it noticing the blanket of her palm, the minutia of her skin. “How was your weekend?” she said. “Dandy,” he said automatically and safely. “See you in class” “See you,” he grumbled spiritlessly. She left, and he could still feel the velvet delicacy of her hand, it was the only touch he got these days. He ran to the restroom.
Christof Pryor is a lonely writer. He is proud to be alive. Christofforever.com