The Hole Not Entirely in My Heart

It is not my fault that I have been swallowed in dreams.

Everywhere I go, I have looked for one simple thing, one thing I must believe exists in this world. I have looked for that which can fill the hole inside me.

I have been informed of the dimensions of my hole, and therefore I must believe in the reality of that which can fill it. When I shift and squirm under the covers, and blood rushes to my pelvis, and my legs spread, my fingers trace the outlines and explore the depths, and I know for certain that I have not been given all that I can contain.

I have many things that should prove helpful in my quest, but none have worked. My light red curls fall easily into place, and frame perfectly the face they always tell me is equally perfect. Is it? I think so, because what is on my face is in my heart. My mouth is one that men commonly look at right away and picture their cocks inside its full circle. I have looked into the mirror, and I admit I have never seen anything more perfect than when I just place my lips completely over the head of the penis I am contending with.

I have looked into that mirror a million times, alone and with company, always trying to see if there's something I'm missing. I've wrapped my legs around it and looked at my sex to study its perfection, rubbing it as I sit in wetness, until my lubrication has evaporated and left a steamy circle on the mirror as I pull it down on top of me and make love to myself. When I put yet another cock inside me, I always turn so that I can face the mirror and see it moving in and out of me, measuring precisely how far it reaches into me and how empty I remain.

I have been forced to dream, because I have not yet been given what I need.

I can only bear to look at my own face when I come. My lover's flesh is most frequently the worn oak frame of my mirror, and my lover's breath only clouds my image as I make faces, eager to break the monotony of partial fulfillment.

I have pursued the filling of my hole down every dark alley, through every plush office, and in every size of bed. I have attempted two, even three lovers at once, filling me until my body broke, but not my soul. I have tried the anxious youth, and the confident man. Their flesh has been pink, it has been charcoal. I have had penises pliable enough to conform to every contour of my inner folds, and penises hard enough to mold me to their shape, with no difference. I have had them slender, I have given birth in reverse. I have had nubs that tickled my labia, and mighty spears that have pushed through my cervix and into my womb.

Until I met you, no manner of physical prodding has had one bit of effect. I have even poured plaster into my chamber and affixed it to a violently vibrating chair. Close, but still a crashing failure. My loins have continued to soar through unimaginable starcharts, alone...

Until I met you...

How I am still shattered by what you have done to me.

I wake up crying, worried that you might ask me how you do it, but I remember that you know nothing of what I have done looking for you. I just cry into your neck, and you are right to believe it is out of love, but you have no idea of the shape of it.

You'll never know the history, you'll only remember how my body became loose and hot in your hands, how I made strange noises feeling your sweet cock in my mouth (I was crying), how I couldn't bear not kissing you as your wonderful wonderful penis bobbed in and out of my flesh, I'd grab you and pull you to my mouth. I felt every trickle as the sweat on our stomachs ran onto the bed beneath us. I even felt the light ripple go through the tiny pool of your sweat collected in my navel, stirred by the hairs on your stomach, oh so gently...

I can't even think as I recall, I'd start masturbating again right now except it would only remind me of the dimensions of the hole you have left behind, how you blew open and devastated every expectation I ever had, and how I need you inside me right now. I had a hole inside me so huge that literally one thousand lovers could not fill, even had they all performed together.

All it took was your subtle perfection, and I can offer only one explanation for it. Were I to draw a picture of you, you would look as ordinary as any passerby. Were I to describe you, I would interest no one. You have indeed hinted to me that no one has ever looked at you with a fraction of the horrifyingly intense love you have set off inside of me. But, my love, you don't quite understand that no one has looked at me the way you have either, and that is everything that matters.

No one has ever looked at me the way you look at me, and the moment I locked eyes with you, every wish I'd had was fulfilled and my reserves were already full, running over and cracking. I felt every single orgasm you'd give me until your dying breath in that one moment, and it will only continue at the same intensity until you do die (even if I must kill you to save myself). It was your eyes that did everything. Don't hate me for not talking to you, or listening to you, just love me with those eyes...

Because you will never understand. You will never understand that somehow, I can see everything you can see, and feel everything you can feel. You look at me with my own eyes, you fuck me with my own cock, you kiss me with my own lips. I can't tell you that I have stolen your senses from you, I can't tell you that I don't care one bit for who you are or where you have come from, or that you are some fucking puppet on cosmic strings you can never comprehend. No, my lover, you own not one experience of me that isn't fed directly into my brain and experienced simultaneously by me. You are a twisted doppelganger, my male mirror, a walking biofeedback machine, and all that's missing are cruel twisted tubes leading out of your skull and jammed into my flesh. If you suspected for one second that I were your sense-thief, it might break the connection, and I would be caught in our bedroom with your skull split open and pieces of your brain crammed into my vagina. I'd kill you in a split second if you broke the connection, because of the threat that one ounce of the truth might escape with you.

So I'll see you tonight my dear, and we'll dine, and go home, and if you want to impregnate me, I won't care. You mention children, a career, etc. etc., it's all baubles to me, the least I can do for what you do for me. Just keep that cock of mine inside me, keep my lips pressed to my own, and keep my eyes fixed on me. I'm coming in my pants right now just thinking of you, my love, and I'm crying at the thought you'll ever be gone. Don't make me kill you, darling, just fuck me, fuck me forever, fuck me until I die.