There is a man in my head. He is fat. He sits on the edge of my bed and masturbates the whole day. His stomach stretches all over his t-shirt. The strange thing is, he is always smiling. Smiling as he masturbates, as he comes—dried cum on his thighs, his arms, his hands, on the bed, from over the years.
I went into the room to say hello. He smiles.
‘How many times today?’
‘I don’t know. I lost count’
Because it is the only thing my hands know. It is practised, this movement, up and down. It feels strange not to come, not to have that feeling built up in my throat, my stomach, that pressing. How do you not do it? Doesn’t it feel strange—your body limp, dull, boring. The pleasure feeds me/whole/makes me whole today, today, today.
This is exactly what I say to myself. Come, come, come. Would you stay, little girl? Accompany me? This bed is really warm and soft. You would fit perfectly right next to me, your small little body. Aren’t you tired? You look tired. Why are you walking away?/Are you scared? Are you scared? You look like you want to run away.
Don’t you notice the cockroaches and rats in the room? No. Don’t you notice the stale, pungent scent, don’t you notice the dried semen, the floor crusted with your cum, that your hands are aching, that you have not bathed in years? Don’t you notice you, in this room.
Aren’t you tired? You look tired. You look like you want to run away. I sigh. He lets me sit down next to me and I lean into this chest. His breasts cushion my head, envelopes me. He strokes my hair, lets me lean into his body. Massages my face, my neck. Are you feeling better now?
I don’t really want to go. It’s true. The room is dark and cold and damp. The bed is perfect. but still. I tug my head—out of habit, I don’t know, because I should? I don’t know I just go.