Sitting here with the memory of an erection in my hand, I disappear further and further until what’s happening on the screen is a distant thing of colour and light. I’m supposed to be trying to review the amateur section on www.Stileproject.com. But the shapes move and drift now and I’m not sure I’m anywhere to be seen.

Is this what you wanted?

You give it an absent limp shake as if to say ”Speak to me – Breathe” But it’s only going through the motions – you’re not really paying attention. Only doing that because it’s a muscle memory in your hand, like it feels it’s supposed to. As if the deflating corpse in any other situation would be something of a shame – before a woman or yourself. Now, the motion becomes the half there shake you give to a friend’s shoulder as you are both distracted, looking off at something else.

I reach for a cigarette, absent-mindedly knocking off a CD cover with the past of a bag on it. There is no thought as to; is this the future you envisioned for yourself – the sad dazed truth is, it is and it’s fucking glorious.

You sit back, cigarette lit, right hand rubbing the insistence of stubble on your chin as your eyes regard the shapes on the screen. Well for all intents and purposes that’s what they look like they’re regarding – it – and they’re aware they’re seeing something – but really, they’re looking right through whatever that light is to a distant point beyond. Whatever is going on plays like the high piano notes in a Fad Gadget song – there but off centre.

Sitting here with the cold memory of an erection now in my hand, I take a drink from it and try to recollect myself. Rub my eyes stretch my jaw. Refocus. Enhance – enhance…

I find I was looking at a tanned blonde, pigtails, not so much skinny but wickedly toned, small breasts and a goofy almost stoned expression on her face as she alternates between bounce grinding and joyously licking it. I’m not so much whistling at her, but just some tuneless effort to silence the susurrus of thoughts shuffling about my mind.

Her belly. Something about her belly – how the muscles undulate – those momentary flashes of an internal lump pushing against toned muscles. Brought a flashback memory of an earlier time, an earlier person and I’m flung like crumpled tissue through the forest of my memory. I think the first tree shatters me – the internal monologue becomes a dialogue – one more tree and it’s just intersecting conversations in a busy pub. And she’s shivering eyes warm, welcoming, yet flickering – sometimes here, sometimes empty far away on the shores of whatever place is that goofy smile.

I’m pretty sure this is intense shit. That pure amateur visceral bite of point-of-view reality the really psychologically destitute of us search for. The distant part of my brain that is reality check appears to confirm this for me. It’s voice goes something like “Hot Fuck, she’s cute – small-little gap between her teeth – cute-goof careless abandon – her body language is just dripping adoration for the object of her affection – that makes it, that…”

I can’t help but notice the room around them is Spartan. A doorway leads to what looks like a kitchen and there is some sort of rumpled looking leather seat – nothing more. Just two people fucking like they mean it – in an empty room – on a camera that he keeps seeming to nervously adjust. It almost seems like his heart isn’t in it. This doesn’t appear to be some testosterone sown-up dickhead who has spent too much time surfing porn, because if it was there would be more focus on the goods – hers and him getting the best damn angle that shows the might and majesty of his cock ploughing her.

I know this, or more, I feel this, because the sad, absent-mindedly pathetic truth of the matter is, he keeps adjusting the camera so the main focus of it is her face. Sure the rest of her is there to be admired, synaptic-ally licked. But time and time again, her face becomes the focus. There is a hypnotic to this – you begin to wonder if he’s focusing on her face out of sheer love – out of the adoration she appears to share. Or even, if perhaps, somehow – was paid to share. Then you begin to wonder if there is an air of paranoia to where he is focusing on her face so much because he is watching for a momentary break or shift in features that might betray the pureness she is expressing as actually some sort of mask. That perhaps she doesn’t feel the way she has told him or that her body language seems to so clearly say. Perhaps I’m over thinking this shit – this thought also filters through but it’s quickly lost in the hypnosis.

Memories – memories thump for attention like the loud lost child like beeping of an old phone receiver left off the hook. It offers a caustic ponder as to whether this is why I take these occasional perambulations from work – life. To find something that reminds me. Anything. The memory almost always kills any erection – in the past you’d hold onto it, focus on it – but now you drift distant off into it, like a small untethered boat on evening tides.

That moment where near Richard Dreyfuss in front of a mountain of mashed potato – except – she’s sitting over you, holding her belly – grinning goofy, filled up with good sex dopamine – voice slightly slurred with pleasure saying “I think we made something…” that moment of creeping madness and horror… Don’t worry though, I’m pretty sure you’ll bastard that one out.

He ain’t hot shit, that’s for sure. He keeps a lime green t-shirt on, she uses this as both an anchor and leverage. His chest and belly look like someone shaved a carpet and glued it to the soft becoming of a beer gut. I can understand if he was a little paranoid about her – watching her eyes – staying on her face – I can also understand if this was done out of pure awe of her and that perhaps she really does feel the way she does for him. Fuck – her face is such a fascinating joy I’d be focused on it too – I am – yet that and hypnosis of his focus, its intent.

I wonder if they’ve just moved into a new home – are fucking on the new bed for the first time – or if it’s the last fuck goodbye to a place possibly filled with warm memories. I wonder why I’m here – looking at this – griped by memories and unfeeling, limp, a beer suspiciously eyeing over my shoulder and the corpses of a brigade of cigarettes. Perhaps it serves as some sort of thalidomide counterpoint to the blogs. The worst thing the world could have done was give emotional, fucked up writers a space outside their art to whinge. Because that, is all they seem to do. Good time spent writing is spent dandering about insomnia, personal slights, Amazon user reviews, drugs, health, the little sneeze they caught last week when they also had the terrible misfortune to have an owy knee – I’ve had it running now on loop – in the background for hours.

I turned the sound off – now I’m just running dark ambient music, dark ambient music and The Walker Brothers. I can only threaten the memories with the glib quotation of lyrics as if I mean it – the bloodless memory held with leery menace as I mumble “If I jerk the handle…you’ll die in your dreams…” She is just at the part where she clambers aboard with awkward grace, where he is holding himself straight and she is taking that warm guiding hand and…

I drift – my keyboard is so filthy from the nicotine residue that my word-swollen hands often feel dirty – covered – caked. Her belly undulates up, almost rising out of the half of the monitor it has owned now for a few hours, I actually feel my eyes have a quick reccy with my brain as if to send the signal to draw back quickly.

I think it has infected my brain – the loop – like some sort of rooting spore – because everything has become infected with sex.

The Medex the container vomits onto my hand has the pearlescent white glimmer of cum. The Dettol heavily watered down as a stop gap disinfectant for tattooing myself – looks like a bottle of vegetarian cum and the scrunched tissues from a self inflicted sinus infection they…And I’m back, safely between the words and them – him in his silence and hairy lime – her with her sunflower short sleeve, matching bra and beady costume bracelets.

And I’m whistling away memories, the cabbage boy who doesn’t even feel when he – her lips are darker – a good pitch down to the without and within – the shriveled gnarled voice of the Christian I never was – just raised around – gutters “That’s because that’s where the sin is…” I wave it away – the accidentally foppish way one would a human with delusions of bitchhood whom you’ve grown imminently bored of.

I’m not sure I ever want to leave this place – between the words and them. When she licks him and his legs unbidden shiver and jolt and she smiles, there is a hard to fake reality to that, that reminds me of the ghosts of a life. I’ve come to the last opioid phantasm of life – parasitically sucking their emotion so I can relive my own and huddle around the embers. The hypnosis, her bobbing head…

It’s finished and she is rubbing her bellyvis contentedly, she looks as if she’s just about to peak on a hotshot of goof and happiness. I can only imagine his smile. I hope he’s smiling, he better be fucking smiling.

Memories, memories, I shiver away the one of the Mormon praying over me, a splayed hand clenching the wall as she rigids her throat up against the ceiling of heaven, I’m dripping out of her and she’s praying to God… I try and retreat to one of the happier ones – one of the ones her face, her warmth discards me to as the video stutters and loops back to begin again.

And we’re back to her grinning, rubbing over her breasts, I think I may well have begun to either dilate time or hallucinate as it seems almost in slow motion.

She has powder blue socks on – I don’t know why I just typed that.

This will never excite me again. They’re like friends now. I’ll come to them for comfort, for some sort of solace, these pair, forever locked in this memory on my desktop, in loop. It has become all the warmth for me a hug used to hold.

The beginning – from her near slow motion rub and grind, to the drop down to where his boxers are half off. She takes them off – or tries, a forward motion for strong independent sexually liberated women around the world – she takes them off and is hampered by the worst of all creations – a man’s knees and he has to shift, with the awkward grace of a responsive lover – the way we all have at some point – to allow her to tug and pull them off. Yet the moment is not lost in the idiocy of underwear.

When she has them, she brings them up and she smells them. She wraps them around her face and she just stands there, huffing and smelling them as if they were a childhood memory or the tshirt your ex left after she told you that you’d destroyed her life. You can almost feel the exuberant joy in her eyes as she hooks them into the string of her bra that covers her heart – that soft spot between the breasts, clenches them dearly to her heart then brings them up to heart-clench and lovingly huff his essence once again. Eyes the joy of detonating suns gleam over that material and she is back close eyed at him once again…

If you would – if you’d be so kind – I think when I fade off this – when I’m truly going – I don’t want to relive my memories – I want to be brought back to this silence and ambient track – this stasis locked twelve pixalated minutes of moments and the cigarettes I shared with it.

Turning the sound on – I only just notice the background – the creaks of furniture – her joyous howl-barks of pleasure…

Sitting here a resurgent thought by my wrist, I wonder at the memory. At the sudden flow of heat mainlined down the mainline to the mainframe. It’s a flicker – an acknowledgement – because that, this – that beginning moment of smell and smiles and all that follow – that momentarily feels like what love is – no, just – what love is. And that’s why I’m here. Smoking this cigarette, drinking this beer, eyes far past the shapes and lights, the far back of beyond.