Only the alcoholics write poetry. Only the old guys will tie you up. Only the rich ones want to own you. And only a man who keeps his busy hands down his pants would try to keep you but not to try.
A tree whose growth is interrupted by the removal of its light source will deform itself as necessary to survive, bending toward whatever light is available and growing horizontally, if it must. It seems the same thing happened to you. You stretched up toward the glow of golden teenage goddesses and were rebuked, and so turned to the warmth of a flashlight under your bedcovers. And it has made a gnarled and sad creature of you, the size of a man, but with all the determination and prowess of a little boy. You don't need to figure out what you want, as long as you can give yourself what you decided to settle for.
For you, this female body is just a novelty, something soft to squeeze. You touch me passionlessly. It probably never crossed your mind that you could, or should, provoke pleasure. When our gyrations carry us to the point of nakedness and I find you limp, my heart collapses. When you prod me awake in the middle of the night, finally inspired by whatever fantasies comprise your routine, my pride still stings from your disinterest, but I spread my legs in desperation.
(Do I even need to say how your indifference has affected me? A boy is working next to me, getting warm. As he does, I can smell his unmistakably masculine deodorant and with only that I am wet and trembling. I wait in a line and a man behind me stands just a little too close, I am ready to bend over the counter. We are not all so good, or so satisfied, with our hands. I need that other kind of kiss. Going without has taken me too far from sanity.)
As I walk out your door for the last time, I wonder if you know what you're missing, not just in me, but in other people. I wonder if you ever get lonely in your own hand. I wonder if someone, some day, will make you hungry enough to starve yourself of your solitary indulgences.
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