What do Women Want?

What does this woman want?

She wants to be fucked hard, to “stay fucked” in the words of the late, great Henry Miller. To carry my mark like a badge of honor; to squirt, to gush, to stick my eyelids together, to luxuriate in my sweat.

She puts my climax above her own, bless her soul. This is something I could never do, fundamentally greedy rascal that I am.

She wants to be both worshipped and degraded, understood and cheerfully chided, cared for and depended on.

I offer her the child, the man, the beast and my own femininity. Both the antagonist and protagonist of my own chaotic off-off Broadway play- but who will fill in the gaps?

Not a god.

I don’t need religion when there is pussy, when there is wine in my cup, food in my belly and a joint hanging from my lip. Faith comes from a perception of lack — only the thoroughly miserable need a Savior, need divine guidance.

I am not lost. My cock is my North Star, my compass is made of flesh and points toward rabid creation. But her? She wants to be fed and left hungry. You can be anything, but be about her. I am all about her; poised to go down like the Titanic on her cunt and under her spell.

I am woefully inadequate. She relishes my shortcomings, rejoices at the sight of my slow burn ruin. It’s the God in me she can’t stand. The immutable core. Surplus of passion, lack of feeling.

Ah well.

I want her, she wants me and we are content.

For now.