Expected Sexuality

At times I feel asexual,
But not in the biological sense.
I have the complete set
Of male tools – and, according
To them, they function well.

By them, I refer to
The shes and hers.
I loved every one of them:
From the older lesbian mother
Who I thrust my virginity into,
To the one-night stand
(I tried to fuck away her distress,
Transform her tears into cum),
To the short-term booty buddy
Whose idiosyncrasies repulsed me,
To the long list of pay-for-play
Women I frequented whenever
Depressed or with nothing better to do.

I loved each and every one of them.
Not the Stevie Wonder
“You & I” type of love.
I’m talking in the sense
Of searching for her
Pleasure vein with my
Tongue, fingers, and phallus
Acting as hypodermic needles,
Ready to inject her at the
Most effective moment and place;
Causing her to shake like a junkie,
And rub on her breasts as if
Trying to remove the
Darkness from her areolae.

I’m addicted to her gasps,
Her moans, the way the
Orgasm-induced sheen of
Sweat on her face reflects
Moonlight or candlelight;
Her nails clawing my back, or
Fingers, hooked, like talons,
Grabbing my neck.

But I receive no pleasure
From the act itself, only
From her reactions.
I’ll fake a groan or two,
Grunt every now and then;
I even pretend to ejaculate.
It is what I’m expected to do,
Being a man in this hypersexual society.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
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