Oh, go on then. Pull your engorged flesh from the steel trap, ripping yourself from the aching artifice of the jaws. You can never wash the stink or stain of lubricant from your greasy palms, the scent soaking into everything you do, as the sweat consumes bedsheets and curtains. It's a stain climbing up the wall to where the cracks in the ceiling meet the void. You can open the windows so they hear your screams or your moans or the throttling of the device, but something always remained coiled around the back of your head like a serpent.
It rumbles like a predator, like a conquering king, like a cornered rat. It smokes and sparks and hisses. Where once steel flesh was shiny, it is now dulled by the crude impacts of dried grease, desperation, and cum. Feel yourself drop limply, the strength in your limbs vanishing as you struggle for breath, as the streetlight outside blinks, as a distant party roars their consent.
It's the dull gasps for breath that punctuate as the pleasure radiates outwards, the once convulsing muscles in your legs slowly calming until there's nothing left but a grim thirst and the gripping stillness. Your heart never stopped pounding and your grip is weak, your arms too heavy to move. For a moment there, you felt it as divine, as heaven, as perfection. For a moment, and then it was lost into the maelstrom of a noisy mind as all things surely are. The pleasure and pain swirl and blend, the price you pay for euphoria, for a break, for silencing the pure hunger. By the light of the dim moon, it'll be back. Under cloudy skies and with howling winds, your hand slips lower and lower, the drawer of forbidden things opening on its own.
You can flick back and forth between, holes to be filled and canvases to be painted, but the meaning drifts and fades away. Dim digital images, immortal representations locked into the cosmos of reality. How can anyone be forgotten when they can be plastered on display? In this moment, connection is forged between you and them, or between you and what they were, or between you and a single moment of them, or between you and an isolated image of them and what you imagine the rest to be. There is a truth and a reality to your existence, a weightiness that you lack. It is almost vulnerable, as though they're the one watching you, as though you're on display, standing and twirling for all to see.
But does it hurt when your thoughts spiral downwards? Did you connect pleasure with pain, love with hate, joy with sadness? Do you roll along the past, your most pleasurable and filthiest memories all broken with the conceptualization of what is to come? Can you ever stand alone, ever conjure a truly original image in your head? Are you imaginative or are you a conduit for something deeper? Does your creativity fear what you become, what you channel, what your desperation leads to? Is that why it runs from you now until you cannot even picture a face, all images equally unsatisfying and false, pencil sketches burning in the bonfire of your agonizing history?
Isolation is a curse and a blessing, so no one is alerted when the buzzing bee stings kiss your skin with the gentle care of an abusive lover. It almost sounds like screaming, the way the gasps force themselves between your lips as your lung struggle for capacity. Surely no harm is done. Surely nothing is wrong. Surely this is normal. Surely you're not starving, surely you're not failing, surely you could stop anytime you wanted.
It isn't grotesque, really. It's an act of self love. There's nothing wrong with that.