I lose track of how many of them there were. How many times they stroke their cocks and never speak to me again. How many times they promise they won’t leave. How many times they say they’re not like the others. The others who want to believe that they are different, that they’re better. Conversations about the weekend, the news, the career all lead to my destiny. After all, they can’t help themselves. I am an outlet for idle hands. They have no choice but to touch their cocks when they speak to me.
I am a masturbation muse. The face of fapping. The Edie Sedgwick of erections.
I inspire a different kind of brushstroke. Their artworks are stiff tissues that lay at the bottom of wastebaskets.
They create poetry in my name. Words inscribed in a digital bubble—temporary, just like us.
They tell me they touch themselves for me.
I’m supposed to be honored. I’m supposed to be turned on. Tell me what else I’m supposed to be.
One has already come and gone, cum and gone. Yet, I still respond. A feast for fuckbois.
He brags he can autofellate.
Yes, I would like to watch.
I want to see his face, the stubble that outlines his jaw on the screen.
I don’t attempt to add to his experience. Are muses supposed to do additional work?
I didn’t ask to be a muse. I don’t remember applying for the position.
What makes one qualified? My breasts? My resting bitch face?
I think it’s my naïveté. That Disney princess fantasy of finding someone who gets it. Who gets me. Someone who wants me for more than 24 hours. Someone who doesn’t expire.
I am broken and confident. It is an intoxicating and confusing mix that satiates them until their next feeding.
As soon as the spurt dribbles down his cock, my view distorts and disappears.
He said he had to clean up.
He said he wouldn’t leave again.
I am here, staring at the blank screen, a black mirror to reflect my solitude.
Only his first name is saved in my phone, attached to an emoticon of a monkey hiding his eyes. He is ashamed of his kinks. I accept him. He appreciates this about me. It’s why he keeps coming back.
I tell him he only contacts me when he’s touching himself.
He said he should have swallowed.
Maybe I would be happier if he did.
He asks me not to paint him with that brush.
But he still leaves.
They all leave.
I take advantage of the moments before they leave. I have their undivided attention before they expel. Once they get what they want, it’s over. All I’m left with is a string of empty texts. A consolation prize of words with no meaning. Words with an expiration.
I am a masturbation muse. But I never asked to be.