Post Love

I left my wife three years ago.
I write about the women that fill up the void.

Post Love Thirty Eight

Work, work, work, what do you expect from me when I’m done with it? The more you push your boundaries, the more they push back. Like anyone with a job, I find foolish pride in balancing it out. I fall back on braindead mottos like work hard, play hard. I dumb myself down, then try to revive the parts of myself I strangled to get through the day. I worked all day in that tiny town and went back to the city the same night, the big city, the big hotel, the empty room, the bad tv, the faceless strangers in the bland tourist streets. This could not go down as my last night in town. I went outside for a walk and considered my options. Adventure or instant gratification? Tempted by both, my exhaustion narrowed down the possibilities. Exhaustion hates the risk. There’s no time and no energy. What could I really make happen with one night on the town? Realism is deadly. Known offers of easy access in your thoughts, a shortcut to the goal, too tired to chase a catch that might not be all that much of a catch in the end, to realize this hours in, drinks in, money down, it could be a disaster. My night broke down in simple math. How many hours, how much money, how sad to know I could fuck some of the hottest women on earth for less money than enough drinks to get me talking to a woman with half the looks and maybe half a grade smarter, maybe half dumber. Who knows. Fifty bucks flat. Beat that, ladies, with your charades and your games and shames, difficult and uncertain until the very last minute, like the time Hannah changed her mind when I was an inch away from her. No, none of that tonight. Screw adventure, screw risk, and screw Amsterdam! I made my way back to the scene of the crime, the battlefield, the gateway to filth, here I come.

I made my rounds a bit quicker this time, vaguely familiar with the quarters still. I circled my way around again, searching for another prey, starving, it was easier now that I had one under my belt. And to think of how hard I hammered those questions last time, option A or option B, over and over, torturing myself, and now my return rendered it all obsolete. I could choose whatever I didn’t then. A second chance. Last time I had picked a hotter version of what I’d already had, so this time it was simple. Something I’d never had. A black woman. A westernized, streamlined, attractive black woman with a nice smile. I remembered her from last time. She’d been on my list. Deep down, she was the same as the first one. Not her, but my reasons for choosing her. She possessed the same things to lure me in. Pretty smile, big tits, firm build, luscious ass, I went behind the glass and up the stairs behind her, watching her ass shake in a tacky pink bikini and clear heels, reminiscent of the times I followed dirty strippers up to the lapdance booths in Montreal. 

Once in the room, her smile faded, her face taken over by a look less pleased, a cold business gaze preparing her for the sin she was to parttake in. Maybe she was new. Or maybe she was old, maybe she hadn’t learned to live with it yet. Still fighting it. Still clinging to morality. Her thick dutch accent hid nothing. She seemed almost bothered with me now. The transformation reminded me of when Pam morphed into a character slutty enough to jerk off a married man, and I wondered if that was really the character, or if maybe nice friendly Pam was the character. Or maybe both were truly Pam in their own right, but the distinction between both personalities was blatant. They did not blend, did not fade into eachother. There was a stiff line to be crossed, there was this metamorphosis women inflict upon themselves, the same one I have surely put myself through unknowingly, toughening up to fuck the women I fuck out of desperation. I have felt that same, strange second skin grow flush on my face like a mask, like a villain unfolding, impervious to pain, it keeps me floating above the slowly opening abyss of self doubt, self knowledge, self hatred. Like beautiful butterfly wings spanning across the ugliness until you morph back into the slimy larva you once were, stupid and young and immoral, feeding only its need to grow.

She put on dance music and started to undress. I took my clothes off by the chair and turned around to see her posing naked on the bed. It looked silly. I preferred the nonchalance of my first lady of the night, but I couldn’t complain. She looked great. I walked over to the bed with my dick hard. She put a condom on and told me to get comfortable. I laid down like the master of my domain, in the middle of my bed, my back up against the pillows, ready. She rolled onto her stomach, rested on her elbows and took me in her mouth. Well I’ll be damned, I thought. Is this the official hooker blowjow? Is it a european thing? Is it coincidence? Are hookers just lazy? I didn’t need answers. I was getting my dick sucked. Well. She got on top and started riding me, up close and personal, my hands on her ass, her tits in my face, bouncing on me the way only a black woman could. I was taking it all in, opening up my thoughts, my senses, my memory banks to the experience. Getting fucked by a black hooker, my first one, I flipped her over into position and nailed her knowing that there was no pleasure in it for her. Knowing because she did not pretend, did not care to hide, did not have warm eyes or any kind of smile. 

That was her choice. To not enjoy the moment, to not enjoy the profession, to live like this, and maybe it wasn’t her choice, but what did I care? I had made the choice to spend fifty dollars on not having to care. That was the reality. I wasn’t paying for the sex. I was paying for the breathing room, the freedom, the weight being off my shoulders. I was paying to cut out all emotion, all consideration, all but the honest need to cum. Ofcourse, she had ruined it all by bringing her emotions into play. Her squirming negative mind could be countered only by my own. An unfair pairing, admittedly, but it was too late to care about that now. I enjoyed it now. I enjoyed my easy victory over her, I derived the simplest pleasures from her defeat, her sore loss, my mind stood glaring over hers, and I set sail for my lowest self. I was surprised at how easily I discovered such vile pleasure hidden in myself, kicking on humiliating this girl now, playing along with the victim role she had picked for herself. 

That’s when it hit me. Maybe this was just another act, another hooker scam, another character women play. Maybe she saw me walk up with a confident stride, a familiar glance, a determined man that knew the price and the facts and how it all went down, assumed to be another sick fuck, my build not helping my case, always taller and broader and stronger than what a good man is stereotyped to look, I was sure to be a user, abuser, seeking the power play fantasy, fucking a girl that doesn’t want to get fucked. The worst was that maybe she was right. Maybe she knew something about me that I only discovered that night. Maybe she unlocked it. If any woman was to know anything about a man, anything about relating his physical appearance and the way he carries himself, to his sex life, his intrigue, his needs, his dark taboo secrets kept even from himself, it would be a hooker. Is that what I was into? Or was it her own interpretations and assumptions, stuck in her thought channels by her own madness, her own life and the way it was unfolding. I slowed down, pulled out, said “doggy” and waited. “Change again?” she said with a nagging voice. Yes, again, you lazy cunt. That sealed the deal. That was all I needed for the gloves to come off. I grabbed her ass with both hands and played with it, squeezed the cheeks, anything to prolongue the torture. I took my cock and slid it in slowly into her pussy, as deep as it would go until my balls were pressing against her dead clit, forced as much blood into my tip as I could muster up, flexing it harder and bigger, pushing my weight into her, slow and obnoxious, mock sensuality, I reached over and grabbed her big tits, clamping onto them, I started to pound into her as hard as I could. Slow, disgusting thrusts into her self depricating self, then faster, my hands on her slim shoulders now, pulling her body into mine with each pounding. I looked up and remembered that the headframe was lined with mirrored glass. Perfection. I could see everything now. I could look down and see my cock going into her, I could look up and see her hating it, suppressing it, getting through it. A perfect punishment, a sick pleasure, an injust justice. It wasn’t what I had wanted, but there was no two ways about it. She had set this in motion. She had tried to be in control by putting me down, she had underestimated my understanding of the situation. We were wrestling naked for power. 

I stared into the mirror, first looking at her, her expression, her body, her tits swaying with my thrusts. Then at myself, my body, my expression. Then the both of us. The full, complete sight of it all. My pale white mass behind her toned black frame, connected at the hip, fast rocking back and forth like sped up waves on a coked out beach, unspoken nature taking place in some dark bedroom in Holland between us. I knew that she was mine until I was done with her. I knew that I was never hers, no matter what. I focused on fucking. Not fucking her, not fucking like it mattered. Just fucking as an isolated event, free from the claws of the future. No ties. Like jerking off with a human body for a hand. Like making myself cum. Like cumming in a rubber, in a pussy, in a hooker, in a bed, in Amsterdam, in a world that belongs to you until you are done. After that, the hooker belongs to herself again, you’re just a guy that fucks hookers, and there’s a million of you being tossed in the garbage, all gathered and disposed of, wiped up and flushed out. But for that one moment, you are conquering all, destroying all, everything in your path annihilated, all obstacles pulverized, a charged up beast hulking through the night, unleashing his life force into dark caves of death. Then he’s gone, and you’re just you. After that it’s just business, just money, just a trip to a place where you close a deal and leave feeling stronger, wiser, better, relieved, surprised, and more than anything, alive more than when you got there.

  1. drunken-soberness reblogged this from postlove and added:
    something hot about...his anger, insecurities, lust,
  2. postlove posted this