When I am sad, I masturbate.
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.