It feels pathetic for about 10 minutes and OK for about 30 seconds.
Not because of the sensations
but because my hand is in my pants and I am pretending
it’s your hand (even though you are right-handed and I use my left) and you see, still confusing your hand for mine is an embarrassing thing to do,
even in the dark
Then there is the guilt of wanting you
but only reaching an orgasm when I watch the tiny, naked people
on my laptop
Then there is just the volume. The awful volume of forced guttural noises
and happiness even on the lowest volume setting
But I need the noises to make it feel real, or perhaps, transparently fake
I feel like I’m developing (if not already developed) a crippling porn addiction
No, no it all feels good, I now remember (having done it just before editing this poem)
I enjoy the whole orchestra of it: The guilt of missing you
with the nice feeling between my legs with the orb of light and high-pitched noises emanating from my laptop
This is how I have sex now. I feel very advanced. In the future, machines will replace humans that I’ve loved and most other things. I have preemptively prepared to live without you- for when you can no longer accidentally return to my bed.
In the two years that you’ve been gone I have become an extremely advanced human/MacBook/xvideos.com hybrid. This will prove to be an advantage, in the future.
leaning over to touch you at the art exhibition, some butterfly paintings or Rothko, you flick me away awkwardly, hit my palm and thumb, a signal of my failing
walk in silence to a cafe with blueberry or just berry in the title, order muffins and coffee, also sit in silence, both looking distantly out the window, you pay $10 for it, comment on how Europe is cheaper, it begins to rain as we leave
get back to the apartment, both stall slightly realizing we are alone together, don’t know what to do so with too much urgency pick up a National Geographic. realize how skinny i’ve got when i catch my reflection in the tv, you go into the bathroom for fifteen minutes i assume you are masturbating
later, bedtime, i suck your dick but you go soft in my mouth, feel indifferent but have a slight ache, suddenly become aware of how lost i am here 3000+ away from everyone with a lanky german who thinks i show signs of being a sociopath
get up to go get ‘cigarettes’, call a ‘casual friend’ who i fucked once when you were out of town, go to his apartment two blocks away. he goes down on me and stays licking the same spot for five minutes or more, i moan with my eyes wide open, taking in his cacti and enamel cups, everything smells like Spain, it’s bare in a way i can tolerate. i shift, bored, he slides his finger inside me but he hasn’t cut his nails so it hurts. pull him up on top of me and feel for his erection, his dick is smaller than i remembered, i put him inside me and hear coins in his pocket move from the pulse of our bodies, maybe i am asexual, he comes inside me without warning and i regret not using a condom because he is slutty, don’t feel majorly worried because of the coil. he rolls over and sit up he has a pouch of fat that looks like beer fat, reminds me of my dad, feel disgusted and announce i am leaving. know he is as sad as me
realize i have been gone for more than one hour and feel anxious but quickly realize you wont give a fuck, or even notice. get back and begin to make eggs. you come into the kitchen, nod. passing me to make coffee you stall, lean in, smell my hair, or my shoulder. you know. you continue you on, it’s 2:30am in green on the oven. feel hollow, indifferent. look at the calendar. ‘we’ve been together a year today’, i say, you shuffle and knock over the sugar, a minute later you leave the room without your coffee
Samantha Conlon is a 22 year old from Ireland studying for a BA in Fine Art, she specializes in Video/Photography, writing plays a major role in her working process. Find her here: samanthaconlonart.tumblr.com