My strokes were more than adequate, if far from expert, and what I lacked in the confident muscle memory of sexual experience, I atoned for in my indifference toward my partner, and the spontaneous, vigorous spirit that accompanies the pre-selected absence of a future together. I was fucking in the now.
Approximately nine minutes of incrementally-intensified humping. A violent squirt inside my rubber prison. Then an immediate, overwhelming crash of emptiness. My bliss is infinitesimal. Pain is my afterglow. Catholic guilt, perhaps. Forgetting my saint name? I hate myself when I cum without love, which is always. The ritual realization that I’m alone, and always will be.