Why I Moan Daddy.
Dad should be proud of me, my pussy is the million-man march.
Another man is on top of me.
Another man is on top of me.
Another man is on top of me. Every part of him is broken, but all of his jagged pieces are held together by his jutting rod. He uses it to scrunch into me, a quick caterpillar he is. Silk yarn wrapping my hole. Pureeing my insides. Bobbling my head. Telling me things too silly to repeat. The same thing that makes me cum makes me want to die. I stretch my neck from underneath his body in search of air that doesn’t have him on it.
Dad, I don’t know how to be anyone else.
Tell me, is it sick that each time another man slides inside of me, I think of you, dad?
I think of you sliding out of my development and scooching your way into wet open mouths and the bottom of off-white crumbs. I think of every-time that I’d come home from school I’d be met with the chipped paint of your bedroom door, and loud coughs accompanied by smoke billowing from underneath it. Sparingly you’d scatter a few loud cackles in the air, inspired by a funny made from the picture screen or the wit of your white woman. Occasionally you’d grunt in pleasure when her wit was applied in the places it was most valued, sometimes you’d come out to use the restroom or get something to eat or to give me a cursory once-over; the ones that made you feel reinforced as a parent.
You were always sliding through me. Always around me. But never on top of me. Never making sure that I become the woman you thought I should be. Would you be ashamed that someone is always on top of me now, always in and out of me, making a woman of me? Or is that too obscene to imagine your little girl fucking? To imagine your little girl taking dick?
When I was a little girl I imagined what it would be like to fuck.
Not to just get fucked, but to be fucked in the ways I imagined only a lover could; passionately being plummeted into the cotton pillows of which my lover and I had laid our curly naps on for hundreds of nights together, whether we were just tired or tired of each other, committed we would be to crushing our heads into these pillows, together. Repeatedly. Again, making the choice that this is it. That this was us until there was no more. A true lover. I’d imagine that things would get bad together, sometimes, but we’d grit our way through; curling our lips back howling into the white sphere that we are here and that this is what not giving a fuck look likes. That type of fucking, I imagined. Sometimes, I imagined that my face would be met with tears, bliss, wet thrill; a derivative of the appreciation I have for getting to experience a handsome orgasm with the man closest to my dreams. I imagined I’d hold him with the strength of imagination realized, holding his body, grateful that the length of time he’s holding mine is longer than his anger spans when I’ve pissed him off. We are satiated. We are okay because the good times usually outlast the bad. And the bad times, though plentiful, aren’t so egregious when I’m doing them with the one I adore.
Is this what you had in mind for me father? An undying love from a man who pumped more than jiz into me?
Surely you didn’t imagine me as I am. You couldn’t have thought that I’d be gallivanting around as a self-proclaimed bad-bitch claiming to the world that my feminine independence was founded in each orgasm, that I found myself tucked somewhere behind a nut? Some sort of new ethos I came up with to make peace with the fact that I consume dick regularly, but have been involuntarily single for the last decade. We all have to find our own glory, did you think this would be the way that I found mine?
Did you, dear father, imagine a man with hands as large as your own holding and suckling my breast appearing as guileless as an infant, a man with your same physique and captive smile; shoving himself as hard as his strength training had prepped him for, in between me, doing everything he could to push his spirit to the edge of his penis? Trying to remove his soul on behalf of his body. Did my father know that I would grow up to snatch souls in search of my own?
Why didn’t you protect me daddy?
Why didn’t you tell me that sometimes I will fall off of my bike and that it may have been a man that pushed me? It may be a man that becomes my kick stand. My road. It may be a man that’s my brake and the chain making chinkling sounds in my wheels along the way because its helping to keep me moving, it works, but it needs oil. Why didn’t he teach me how to tell a man who needs oil? How to tell a man. How a man oils. How to oil a man. How to tell.
What did you dream for me father?
The lack of range in your dreams for your daughter left me to be subjected to every whim of a mans imagination.