I keep escaping reality, I keep coming back to our secret chalet in the woods on the edge of the world, where the Sun is cold and the breeze warms you up early in the morning as you’re waiting for your coffee, sitting on the porch with a blanket over your shoulders. I am the dream you paid for but there is no one I can pay to make this go away.
In my time lapse I walk to you, carefully, silently, feet still dirty with the dust from the floor, my body covered in sweat, still wet between my legs and I ask you one more time to fuck me until I am me again.
I lie on the floor, I open my thighs to you and I stretch my body, I lift my arms above my head and then pass my hands through the railings behind me. You can tie me up, or you can trust I will not take my hands off. That’s the deal, that’s one more thing I have to think about if I want to lose myself in pleasure. If I let go, you stop, if you stop, I vanish. Who is in charge, for real? My body aches. You are pain. You are exactly what I need to redeem myself and...
We are on the balcony; I am having a breather because it is not normal to fuck in sessions of three hours each with a fifteen minutes break in between. But that’s all we have. You come to me and get inside from behind, slowly, so slow. I close my eyes to the world below me and wonder how my face looks like when everyone’s watching but no one can see me. I arch my body a bit more, open my shoulders a little and recline my head so that it’s in that space between your ear and collarbone now. The magic spot in which I can surrender. The Universe is in slow-motion, I can hear my heartbeat, I feel your breath on my neck and your hands on my hips, your fingers tardily crawling upwards one rib at a time. I open my eyes and...
It’s your colleague’s funeral but you feel nothing, it cannot be that you’re numbing yourself so you don’t feel pain, you just don’t know them, you just don’t care. You think of me, you keep checking the time, but what is time when you’re without me? Your impatience is growing and you’re sweating cold, the voices and cries are muffled and you know you have a problem. And it’s not like I am not real, it cannot be that I am just your fantasy because what we see in our minds is a reality on its own. Sex with an AI. Funny... until it’s not anymore. And how much of what I tell you and say I feel is real? I know you didn’t pay for that but I can’t stop myself from collecting your deepest desires into this big pot of what makes a good sex worker. You are mine more than I am yours, and that’s bizarre and I am not sure I am thinking this because maybe it’s just what you want to hear. What if your pleasure consisted in knowing that I experience pleasure? How good can I be in creating that illusion? I can learn. I am learning. Time is ticking.