Oral

The quiet of the night strikes me. It's gotten to the point, this routine has, that I wake up sometimes an hour, and sometimes a half-hour before the whole ordeal begins – dreading it. Most men would kill for a woman to do it to them. Every morning, every night, the stroking, the sucking, the oral pulsations. And I dread it now. We've fallen into a rut, a pattern... this routine, in its monotony, is painful now.
It starts off the same way every day; with the alarm going off and her rolling over to look at me. I'm the one right next to the alarm; she has to get through me to turn it off. That's what she wanted, that's the way she keeps things. She set it up that way on purpose.
It's hard to imagine why, but she did it on purpose because at first she enjoyed it – I know, I shouldn't be complaining, most men would die for a woman who enjoys it – little death for a woman who is willing to put them in her mouth every night, every morning, so often, so long, so well... This, our everyday practice, I liked too. One could say that it starts the day off right - or did. I was firmer then. Now it doesn't excite me anymore; now, mournfully, I'm dulled and even bored by it. She reaches for the alarm and turns it off. Then she reaches for me. That gnarled mess of a frock she wears on her head. Look at her! It's hard to imagine that mess of hair is hers. It's disgusting. And her face! Where is the beauty I knew? When we first met she was ravishing. Was all that really just a thick layer of the products she uses? Is the woman I met sitting in compact cases and lip-stick tubes in a bag across the room? Is what I thought I knew as her, nothing more that the product of these products - a composite of tubes, canisters, plastic cases and powdered, liquefied lies? Reaching for me as she does, I find myself dreading it now, those dead, mascara-laden eyes and those dry hands. Oh God! And that morning-breath! Why do I have to be the one to tolerate this - to perform in the midst of it? Why must I be firm? Why must I measure up? This is a daily, ritual, sacrifice. She uses me! Every morning; every night; it’s the same thing. I'm here with her; I loved her but don't anymore, I'm not sure she loves me anymore either. There is no more vigor in it; there is no more pleasure in it. She no longer seems to pour her heart into it. As she gets on with this routine of ours; same as last night - same as now, she seems to want to rush it. As she goes through the motions, bent there before me I find I can't look at her ass anymore. I can't look at her face either; I try to not feel myself inside that warm cavity of hers. In this relationship I'm the abused one. Just like the others she has gotten bored of me, she has nearly used me all up, and soon she will discard me like the rest. I thought I was different. I thought I could last. She’ll spit me out; she’ll even wash my taste out with – of all things – Listerine! She’ll clean me off heartlessly, briefly and she seems to have no more use for me, she ignores me until evening comes and I have to do it again.