Fake Fuck

We share a moment. Laying between sheets crumpled and sticking to our bodies, sweating silently and gasping for breath. Lost in the post orgasmic emptiness which can only be called euphoria where I understand her the most. I understand that I am not now nor have I ever been just a man to her. Rather a part of herself, outside of herself, that she could mould. Something to control. Something to believe in. I believe that she knows me in the same way. In a great mercury void saturated with the infidelities and timeless vows from which all concepts of romance have formed. Encrusted with the bones of lost lovers. Tibia and cranium alike strew across the sky in limitless constellations. Invariably crashing into each other through the endless chasm of eternal blackness to create… everything.

It is the concept alone the causes matter to sublimate. Allows existence to proliferate. Coaxes life to crawl forward while physics is holding us down all the time. We share a moment where I see myself in her and her in me. Both literally and metaphorically and the act is pure and uninhibited. Regardless of our past or whatever the future may hold it is this constant picture of reality into which all of what has come before or shall follow fits very neatly. This present which is fleeting. Just like the orgasm. A collapse, a punctuation intended organically as a beginning yet presented casually as an end. In this moment there is no confusion about what difference any of this makes because what happens inside translates seamlessly to what appears outside. Truth can be found. You just have to fuck the shit out first.

You cannot know anything about a woman without getting her naked. A man will tell you everything in three or four sentences. A woman is byzantine. Even the vagina is a complex system compared to the penis. Yet when you can find the right spot everything becomes unlocked. There is no more mystery and no more questions. The ardor of tactful searching lubricates for easy entry. A self sustaining environment is born from shackles. A dry vagina will tell you nothing. It will leave you wondering. But a wet one is both a means and an end. There is no truth like it, no monument to humanity so profound and plentiful, no rapture more divine then a wet cunt.

I find myself recounting this as if it is some ethereal concept the exceeds the expectation of a physical reality but that is not my intention. It is the very physicality at it’s basest level that makes our coupling so profound. The abstract nature of relationships and the societal boundaries of expectation, the repugnance of morality become a shadow cast beneath a idolatry far from the hot center of the universe in which we swim. Past the point of a comprehensive analysis there is a chaotic perfection a rhythmic freneticism that allows us to transcend the normal boundaries of ethics. Into this open field we run. Casting off the woes of civilization. Greek mythos reborn to fuck into existence a new generation of hyperbole. Hero’s of our own epic. Slaughtering the titans of forced perception.

Translated into words it seems calculating. Yet there is nothing calculable about any of it. To try and put a pin in a concept is like trying to paint the air. There is no more weight or truth to any of it then there is to the sky yet we all know it is there. Dancing just above the street blue as the day is long allowing us to move through cosmic drift and fill our lungs with vitality. There is a line of symmetry to be drawn through the whole of existence. From one moment to the next. From the cracks in the pavement to the scars on my skin, the color in her eye, the sent in the air, the chime ringing in the wind cascading over the landscape and escaping out over the city. Blowing endlessly from nothing towards nothing for nothing. You can pin any number of descriptions and attribute countless actions unto it but still there is no perfect explanation for what theses incarnationsy venerate.

As I try to figure how one could possibly translate something so specific yet utterly incomprehensible I am left with a smile. The realization that regardless of the magnanimous nature of any phrase or the perfection of any summation is only relatable so far as the receptive acuity of the conceiver allows for infinite interpretation or misunderstanding of any concept is within itself the nature of the fact which I wish to convey. The fuzzyness at the edges of our ability is our only true potential. That which forces us to realize this potential is our only true ability. For every thrust that forces me past the previous thrust there is a stoppage of imagination and a culmination of creation resting casually on the border of impossibility and action.

When you strip away the cloths, when you disregard the words, when you no longer honor the idea, what are you left with? A shape. That shape is all we are as long as we honor the sanctity of that shape. Once we allow penetration of that shape or thrust ourselves into that shape we no longer exists as a shape. A synthetic creation formulated from the madness of the unintelligible exercised and actuated. We share a moment. In that moment I disappear and she disappears. We are created. No boundaries can capture us no limits can stifle us. The plurality of existence expressed in the singularity of being. In that moment we shared everything. We give rise to a new universe of our own creation. A universe consisting of two forces, of two bodies, of one purpose. The artistry cannot be separated from the practicality. Like hands drawing themselves they create one another organically. With each thrust the universe shifts.

Does she feel the same? Fuck if I know. Honestly, fuck if I care. If I cared I would go limp. If I allowed myself to be pulled from the moment into some justification or evaluation the spirit of the thing would be reputed. Fake an orgasm or don’t fake an orgasm. Think about me or anyone else. Allow the Byzantine structure to pull itself up by it’s own bootstraps and sing itself a drunken symphonic melody. Even after all I have written here I have not the depth nor the patience to try and imagine the inter workings of a mind separate from myself. To imagine that it works like my own seems equally as unlikely as imagining that it functions with any similarity. There is no bridge between consciousness but for the physical interaction we parlay from mental volition. For my sake I assume and I allow this comfortable fantasy to inoculate me from the possibility of betrayal. Which, in the case of this particular incarnation is impossible. For you can betray and emotion and you can betray a feeling or a promise. What you cannot betray is a fuck. A fuck is a fuck is a fuck. There is no such thing as a fake fuck.

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