The Pornography Of Me.

"He made me come four times," she says, swinging her long legs over the edge of the couch and laying back.

I try not to respond, but I am sure she notices that I grip her hand tighter and the polish I am applying to her fingernails lands as a squiggly mass of liquid instead of the clean, shiny tips that she prefers. She pulls her hand from me and swats me across my mouth with the backs of her fingers. I can instantly smell and feel the wet polish she has deposited on my face. It dries so quickly on skin and seems to take forever to dry on nails.

"You've ruined my nails," she snarls, brandishing them too close to my eyes for me to really be able to see them, "Why are you so fucking useless?"

As I am about to apologise, she takes the nail-polish from my hand and dips the applicator generously into the bottle. She sits up and begins to paint something on my forehead. It burns on my skin, but I feel myself begin to get excited as she leans closer to my face and scent of sweat and person overcome my olfactory senses. I like this overwhelmingly physical manner of desiring her, sometimes when she is close to me, I cannot think, I forget everything about myself and who I am. When I watch people on one of those dates, you know the ones where you are trying to seem interesting and intelligent to one another, it makes me feel like there is a pebble-sized obstruction in my airways. I don't think I can date like that. Truly, my parameters are so much more shallow than theirs, from the most shallow and superficial bits of me, I long to put my mouth on her beauty. I obsess over it. I never think about her smile, nor her interest in horticulture, I think about her legs. Even as she paints presumable profanity onto my face, I think about her legs.

She puts the applicator back in the bottle and snaps a picture of me on her phone. I want to lean over and take a look, but I wait, I like committing to a role with the exact degree of pathetic it requires me to be. I wait as she types into her phone, clearly uploading the picture for her thousands of admirers to see.  

"Look," she says, turning the phone towards me, "Already got three likes."

My tits are in the shot, but the eyes are immediately drawn to the word "useless" painted on my forehead in ruby red. I let my gaze move downward and read the caption: CONTINUING HUMILIATION OF MY BUSTY INDIAN BIMBO.

Porn is so reductive, but this is who I am to porn, right? The reality of all the notes app apologies out there in the world really lies in the keywords of our porn searches. We'd all be cancelled if those get out. I wonder how long it will be until people develop cancel-fetishes, could it already be happening? Still, things that anger me in certain states of mind, make me feel sick with arousal in others. I hate all these words: humiliation, busty, bimbo, and each one of them makes me wet. I don't hate Indian, but I wish it wasn't relevant to porn searches, even at my most brazen, that doesn't make me wet. I have never shared these views with her, I don't think she would care to hear them either. That would be too real. I like that she is almost completely artificial. It's like interacting with the on-camera version of a person all the time. She is only real in her perversion, in the maddening arousal of mistreating the ones who worship her. I understand why the camera loves her, it isn't the gorgeous body or the soft skin, it's the vivacity of knowing she is the show. She is not a person. She is a performance.

"You are staring," she says, moving her phone out of my eyeline, "You want to see more?"

She taps on her phone and I hear the sounds of her moaning before she turns the phone to me to reveal the video of a man between her legs, licking her pussy with an embarassing gusto and enthusiasm. The entire process is so wet, it makes me retch, yet I cannot take my eyes off it. Unconsciously, I begin to moan and rock myself gently on the floor.

"Please..." I say, looking at the screen instead of her, as if the virtual version of her has more power to grant my wishes than the one beside me.

"What?" She asks, "You want to lick my pussy and *not make me come*?"

She laughs her pretentious, practised laughter. Really, i have heard her practise it and ask people for suggestions on how to make it sound more natural.

"Please, I'll try to make you come," I beg.

It's true. I will try but I haven't ever gotten there. I am too distracted by my pleasure to truly focus on her, in that way I am reductive of her too. My pleasure in her lies only in satisfying my obsession, I don't really care if she doesn't orgasm so long as she keeps making me feel terrible for not making her orgasm. She leans back on the couch and moves her dress out of the way to make room for my face between her legs.

"Come," she says, "But if you are going to waste my time, at least watch him and try to do better?"

Watch him. It makes me angry that men satisfy her more than I can, it doesn't make me angry that she is not satisfied. My anger is misplaced, of course, but you get this idea in your head that women necessarily pleasure women better, when the reality is very clearly that a person pleasures you well when they care about your pleasure. The truth is that I don't care enough, I care about the pleasure of my face, of my tongue, as I taste her. I want to move my lips how it makes me feel good, but I try, I try to imitate the man on the screen. It's distracting to keep checking back up for the visual, I feel like I am making a fool of myself. The moment I get lost in it, she clears her throat and prods me to keep watching. Sometimes I feel like she does this on purpose, she enjoys the shame of my failure. I can't explain how she manages to keep herself from seemingly experiencing any pleasure, but surely, there must be, an explanation. Is it because I am not holding a camera? Would she come on my tongue if I brought a spotlight with me?

I watch the strange man on the screen sliding his arms under her hips and pulling her closer to his mouth, I attempt to do the same but my arms are more shaky, less confident and I feel like a poor imitation of a crystal watch on the arm of a woman in cheap clothes in rich colours. I attempt to suck on her the way he is but it's not very clear so I move my mouth in the most exaggerating patterns I can imagine. She begins to moan, and her hips seem to shake. She announces her intention to come and I continue to repeat the movements of my mouth as if nothing in the world matters. She grinds her hips against my face. She pulls me away and I see her pointing a camera at me.

"Did you?" I ask, eagerly, "Did you come?"

She laughs.

"I totally faked it, you loser" she says gripping my head again, "Now stick your tongue out so so I can get a good shot."

She takes a picture and ignores me as I continue to sit between her legs. Waiting for the inevitable cruelty of the words she says about me. She points the phone at me. I look like such an exaggerated version of a sexual being, sticking my tongue out like no one in the world ever really does.

"DESPERATE WHORE FAILS AT PLEASING ME. AGAIN."

Porn is so reductive, I just wish I wasn't so attracted to how she reduced me.