I wish I had stories to tell.
Instead I sit here, staring at the harsh white glare emanating from the screen in front me. Just staring. Typing, sighing, jabbing a finger repeatedly on Backspace. Not good enough. Never good enough.
She drapes herself over me from behind, arms hooking languidly over my chest, chin resting in the nook where neck meets shoulder. Stares at me staring at the screen. Blank.
Once I would have written stories about her, changing names and hair colors just enough to make them seem a little more exotic, a little more foreign. Hastily I would clack out stories of hitched breath, seeking fingers, triumphant mouths and screams that made the cats in the alley outside howl in cacophonous harmony. I would let the words flow forth, fingers caressing QWERTY keys as they caressed her where her flesh came to hard points: tiny brown nipples, painfully swollen clitoris, even the tips of her canines before they closed lightly on the pads of my fingers, tongue teasing my fingertips until I groaned and shuddered.
Once I would have soliloquized at length of the exact feeling of each strand of her rough-chopped hair against my ear, of the warm breeze of her breath across my chin, of the night she got up from where she had sprawled on the bed, slick and glistening cock still bobbing from the harness around her narrow hips, got up and grabbed the scissors I used for clipping newspaper articles and took them to her hair like she was hacking away a noose from around her neck as I watched from the doorway, eyes heavy-lidded in a post-orgasmic, pot-aided haze.
Once you would not have been able to get me to shut up about the night she made me stand fully naked on a bar and jack myself off for the world to see. She caught the liquid evidence of my orgasm in a shot glass and, looking me right in the eye, knocked it back and then sucked on a wedge of lime. Or the time I bent her over in the middle of the crowd at a rave and fucked her from behind until her knees gave out under her; we sank to our knees in the neon dust and were joined by countless other bodies until everywhere, skin, lips, ass, cunt, hair, everywhere was glistening with sweat and saliva and come.
That was then. Now, I stare at this screen. Tap, tap, Backspace. Sigh.
Her arms slide from my shoulders, fingertips pausing to press only slightly on my collarbone. Silently, she moves to the window seat and lights a cigarette.