The woman in the mirror is frowning, brow creased and biting her bottom lip. A quarter-turn to the left, then to the right, appraising with a critical eye. I look up and meet my own eyes, counter the expression of anxious self-doubt with a wry roll. Let my tummy relax from its tense, defensive, held-in stance. Allow the truth to seep in and expand before me. I may never regain the smooth flat planes of my teenage shape. A sigh.
Recently, I watched “Labyrinth” again for the thousandth or so time because it’s such a great movie. Aside from gawking at David Bowie’s titillatingly tight trousers and singing along with every song, I had a flash of pervy revelation. That scene with all the hands as Sarah falls into the oubliette. Uhuh.
He’s not fucking you, he’s using you to fuck himself. Look at his tightly-closed eyes, his thrown-back head. You can study him at your leisure; right now you’re so far over his horizon, he can’t even see you in his mind’s eye. Look at how his pursed mouth sharpens his cheekbones and squares his jaw. Isn’t he beautiful, isn’t he delicious? You’re almost tempted to clench your cunt muscles around him to see the expression you love so much; of astounded, almost-pained intensity but you don’t want to draw attention to your attention just now; there’s too much perverted pleasure in your non-participation. Don’t make a sound, don’t move a muscle fuckdoll, your task is to lie passive and silent while he masturbates furiously using your cunt as an accessory.