Pleasured

It excites me to see you excited.

It intrigues me to see you panting, as you are now, against this brick wall, excited from the things I've done and will do and am doing to you.

I like seeing you lose pieces of yourself.

You sink into my presented pleasure and you forget who you are and who I am and only the volume of your gasps pull you back into reality.

I love the way your eyes search for anyone listening to my pleasuring of you.

I love the way you cover your mouth to stop the gasp.

I love that your hand drops and you no longer care as I pull you back down with me.

I can see the sweat beading on your forehead, sliding down your neck and pooling at that spot of your collarbone.

I love when you close your eyes and refuse to look at me.

You direct your face to the sky, the heavens where, in my hedonistic position, I cannot see your beautiful face.

Your fingers, long and slender, slide into my hair, slip to my scalp to grasp me and hold onto me as if I am your anchor to this earth you are so threatening to float away from.

I want to grow my hair longer just so I can always be your anchor.

When you do look at me, it's with disbelief.

You don't know why you let this occur.

You don't know why I make this occur.

I don't care why at all, but your eyes shining at me almost make me do.

When your eyes roll back . . . I stop thinking altogether.

When you cry . . .

Those diamond eyes of yours birth crystal droplets that rain on me as I gaze at you gazing through me.

In awe I watch the beauty, the splendor of your pleasured and battered sobs.

The fingers in my hair tighten until I'm sure you'll be walking away with the ebony locks still entwined in your fists, just as I will be waltzing away with the memory in taste.

I make you feel bad, don't I?

I make you less of a man?

I make you more of a sinner?

I make you like it, don't I?

I make you hate me, don't I?

In those last moments . . . you search my eyes . . . I don't know what you're searching for . . . so I look away.

You lose the weakest part of yourself and you give it to me.

I take it all until you are nothing but a shivering mass pressed, hot and sweating, to a brick wall behind civilization.

The real world cannot see you, but you can.

You can see yourself and you hate me all the more for it, don't you?

I love making you hate me.

I hate making you love me.

Hate me. Hate me. Hate me.

Please, God . . . Hate me.

Your fingers are slipping from my hair.

I feel your eyes.

I feel them, but I look to the ground.

You can go back to your real world now, but yet you choose to make me feel the weight of your gaze.

I've let you go again, but you still need to watch me, you still need to scream the silent question.

Why do you refuse to ask it?

Why do you refuse to know?

Why?

Why?

Why.

I feel the fingers sliding back into my hair and I close my eyes before you can lift my head and make me face your reality.

For a moment I was your pleasure.

For that sole moment, I was what gave you weakness.

For that moment, I was everything.

But now, I am kneeling in dirt.

*

Author's Note: So, I read Whimper the other day and wanted to write something in the same context of it. However, if you've read Whimper, you see that this is nothing like it. I've depressed myself in a way that I did not think I could. However, I thought of this just this morning in my British Literature class when I was daydreaming and thinking of the Andy Warhol exhibit my school currently has. I love Andy Warhol and this fic is definitely based on one of his works. If anyone can tell me which one or even thoroughly tell me what you think this means, I'll write you a fic. Thanks for reading. -DMH