A Whimsical Tale of F***ed Up Hopeless Love

We are dancing softly in the moonlight. Her heavy head rests painfully on my boney shoulders, and although she does her best to move her head as little as possible, her spiky crown keeps piercing and scratching the side of my neck. The upper part of my shirt is already soaked in blood, but I keep on dancing with her, holding her tightly in my arms so she can feel my ticking heartbeat and my warm breath on her cold and worn-out skin. She has probably never known a man’s touch. I can feel her quivering anytime I shift around a bit to relieve my screaming flesh. Those few seconds in which our bodies rub smoothly against each other must feel like heaven to her. She has been denied the simplest of pleasures for all those years, but now, as a reward, is able to reap a deep, orgasmic thrill from all those things that we mortals take for granted.

 

So I let her have it, this night and this night alone;, she shall know what it feels like to be a ripe, red-blooded woman. She lifts her head from my shoulders and stares into my soul. I think she is painfully aware of my discomfort, so I offer her a warm smile to relieve her guilty conscience. Her eyes are filled with gratitude, gratitude and fire as she leans into me, almost knocking me over. Her lips seek out mine. I quickly swipe my lips with my tongue before parting them to welcome her. She tastes salty and hard as she massages me and slowly begins to slip her steely tongue into my mouth. Her hands are tiptoeing down my chest and into my pants, fondling and caressing me gently and taking a great amount of pleasure in doing this. I am not able to respond appropriately to her affections; her fingers are too cold, and as much as she tries, what she means to be sensual strokes feel more like sandpaper rubbing around my genitals. Oh, sweet Lady Liberty! I remove her hand from my pants and kiss them softly.

 

This time it is she who smiles, a sad smile as she comes to understand the impossibility of her desires. She pastes a kiss on my cheek and places her head back on my shoulders. Her crown once again digs itself into the side of my neck and blood comes streaming out. It stains the tip of her crown and runs down my back, tickling me as it meanders along. Lady Liberty sighs and we continue our dance through the night. We have at least five more hours ’til the sun rises, and she is doomed to pick up the heavy torch and tablet to resume her demanding duties. I can sense that she is already thinking about it, hardly able to enjoy the here for fear of the approaching there. Oh, Lady Liberty, sweet old Lady Liberty...

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Reviews

[Sara L. Jackson]

Holy s**t this was awesome. I love the image of (what I believe to be) the statue of liberty wanting to make love to a man, and the detail of his plite is very poetic and surreal. It feels warm and dark when you read this, and Lady Liberty feels very innocent. Such an awesome job man, it's like a painting.