Want
by Elliot DeLocke
I want to run my hands up the thighs of the office babe, dressed in killer heels and a grey skirtsuit and stockings with slightly-crooked seams; to unbutton her starched white top to find she’s wearing a black lacey bra, with matching panties further down; to take her into a toilet or supply closet and have her wrap those thighs around me and make pornographic moans from beneath inch-thick librarian’s glasses while I penetrate her; to fuck the button-down corporate bitch and find out she’s a total devil-slut beneath all that professional reserve.
Want, and wish.
I want to take home the young Goth girl, dressed in black with torn fishnet stockings and fashionable chains and fuzzy punk-rock hair, and fuck her on my bed; to bite at the flesh around her spidery neck tattoos and run my tongue over the silver piercings on her lip and cheek and eyebrow; to have her ride me all day while still wearing those knee-high boots, covered as they are with silver buckles and leather straps; to hear her confess mid-penetration that her Gothic attire serves to advertise her promiscuity and sadomasochism, and hear her thank me for every hard slap and deep plunge and tight squeeze I put to her skinny little body.
Want, and need.
I want to fuck the barely-legal high school girl with the toned legs, knee-high socks and tartan skirt, have her pull off her little panties and straddle me in the seat of my car, her virginal pussy riding me to orgasm while her tits push into my face; after that I want to fuck her college-girl equivalent, peeling off skin-tight blue jeans to rail her hard from behind on her squeaky dorm bed, ejaculating all over her back and hair; then I want to sleep with the baton-twirling cheerleader, and the skanky club girl in the leather miniskirt, and all the other women whose physical forms are coat hangers for every far-fetched fuck fantasy I can fit to them.
Want, and crave.
I want to fill the empty space in my bed with a something simple, superficial, and sexy in every way that doesn’t matter; to satisfy my bottomless longing and deep loneliness with whatever shallow pastiche can pass for sexual bliss; to fuck women in high heels and knee-length socks, with neck tattoos and prom queen faces, in cocktail dresses and PVC corsets; to sleep with fiery redheads and racy brunettes and dirty blondes and every other socially-acceptable archetype the world tells me is hotness personified; to fuck repressed Catholic girls and submissive Asian babes and desperate sex-hungry MILFs, because what’s a woman’s creed, culture and life experience if not just another cliché for my lust to co-opt and colonise, with ravenous disregard for common decency.
Want, and hate.
I want to admit the facile truth behind these impulses; to confess the sheer commonness of my desires; to plead forgiveness for my fascination with the everyday objectifications that society authorizes me to have; to acknowledge that my fantasy life is so packaged and pre-processed, it might as well come with Coke and fries; to speak truth to my tedious urges for bland fetishism and pornographic peccadilloes.
Want, and wish.
I want to believe I’m not just another automaton rolled off society’s factory line, pre-programmed with lust sub-routines and carnal narratives shared by every other hetero male in the panting, sweating, masturbating sexual collective of Western Civilization; to hope that I can find satisfaction in a way not pre-approved by the filmmakers and fashionistas, the pornographers and pimps, the colonists and conquistadors that came before and left me this wretched, tedious legacy of sexual stratification and trickle-down smut.
Want, and need.
I want to be stirred to dizzying heights of lust and desire by the sight of my partner, without reference to a preconceived body of patronizing, painful pseudo-perversions; to be stunned by a woman’s sexiness without draping her in superficial stereotypes and socially-approved markers of fuckability; to be aroused by the utterly human truth of stretch marks and rude hair and inappropriate flab; to find bliss in tight, deep nooks that pulse with life and reek of earthy odors.
Want, and crave.
I want to fuck and stroke and feel alive, instead of merely relieved; to have an orgasm that burns for days, instead of one that merely opens the tension-release valve; to reach beyond the borders of dull, polished, patriarchal fantasia and grasp something rich and raw and real; to break through the deadening desires that have contaminated my sexual preferences; to forsake this blighted place of flat, empty lust and the corpse-like air of social acceptance that hangs around it; to find out, beyond anything else, who I really want to fuck.
Want, and hope.
© 2014 Elliot DeLocke. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Bio: Elliot DeLocke was born in small town Australia and raised in big city Asia. Office worker by day and writer by night, Elliot loves fantasy, horror, feminism and history, and is fascinated by how sexuality underpins them all. He’s survived wildfires and insomnia and is very happy to be here.