I Come on the Women I Invent When I Write

It’s two in the morning and I’m horny again because of a story I still haven’t finished writing. It always happens to me. I start with the intention of telling a story, of arranging the scenes, of choosing the right words, and by the third sentence I’m no longer telling anything: I’m living it. The story stops being text on the screen and turns into a concrete woman, with a name I’ve just invented, with a mouth that exists only in my head and yet feels as real to me as the desk beneath my elbows.

Tonight the protagonist’s name is Mariela. I described her a couple of paragraphs ago: a dark dress clinging to her hips, her hair carelessly pinned up, the high heels she takes off as soon as she comes through the door. I’ve made her mine with every adjective. And now, while I try to describe how she undresses for the other character, it’s me watching her do it.

My cock is burning inside my pants. That’s not a figure of speech. It’s a definite heat, a pressure that rises and no longer lets me keep typing calmly. I take my hands off the keyboard, lean back in the chair, and let my imagination do what the text can no longer contain.

Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just until it passes and I can go back to the sentence.

But it’s never just a moment.

***

I slowly unzip myself, as if someone might be watching me, even though I know I’m alone in the apartment. I pull my cock out of its hiding place and it’s already thick, hard, the skin taut from holding back so long. I squeeze it at the base and feel the pulse beating against my palm. It’s hot, much hotter than the rest of my body, as if all the blood at this hour has pooled there.

My hand starts moving on its own. Up, down, under the skin to expose the glans, dark and sensitive, so awake that the first touch pulls a sigh from me. It’s a pleasure I’ve felt a thousand times and yet, every time, it still feels new. There’s something almost magical in that contradiction: knowing perfectly what’s coming and still trembling at the first caress.

I close my eyes and stop being me. I stop being the guy in the chair at two in the morning and become the character in my own story. It’s no longer my hand moving up and down: it’s Mariela’s mouth. A new mouth, unknown, wet and soft, closing around my dick and taking control. I imagine her kneeling, looking up at me with those eyes I invented for her a little while ago, and I feel the rhythm of my own hand match the rhythm of her head.

With my other hand I hold her by the nape. In the fantasy I grip her there, sink my fingers into her tied-up hair, wordlessly ask her not to stop. She doesn’t stop. She goes deeper, slower, and the heat of that imagined mouth runs all the way down my spine.

***

What turns me on most isn’t just the sex I write. It’s that I built her myself. Every detail of Mariela came out of my head: the expensive lingerie she wore under the dress, the lace clinging to her skin like a second layer, the way she bit her lip when she undid herself. I designed her so she would appeal exactly to me, with not a single flaw, not a single concession. And that’s why she responds to me like no real woman ever would: exactly how I want, at the exact instant I want it.

My hand speeds up a little. I think about her breasts, which I also described, full and sensitive, about how her nipples hardened when the other character licked them. I imagine that mouth traveling over my neck, down my chest, while my fingers search between her legs and find the swollen, slippery clit, throbbing beneath my fingertip. I rub her in slow circles in my head and she moans, and that invented moan rises through me as if I were really hearing it.

The whole scene I’ve been writing for the past hour comes crashing down on me all at once. The woman in the elegant dress, the underwear falling to the floor, the first long kiss, the moment she straddles him. Every sentence I typed is now an image, and every image squeezes my balls a little tighter. They feel full, loaded, heavy since the first paragraph, as if they’d been gathering all this time of pure anticipation.

***

I bring my free hand down. I stroke my scrotum, barely brush it, and pleasure changes texture, becoming duller and deeper. One finger, almost on its own, slides farther back and toys at the edge of my own asshole, testing it, pressing gently. It’s a territory I almost never explore, and precisely for that reason it electrifies me. The fantasy splits in two: I’m the man fucking her, and at the same time I’m the body opening to a new, forbidden, delicious caress.

In my head, Mariela has turned around. I stroke her ass, firm and warm, and slide an exploring finger toward that other point, as tight, hot, and wet as her mouth. I imagine her tensing and then giving in, opening for me with a contained moan, and while I think it my own finger repeats the gesture on my skin. It’s the first time she’s taken a pounding like this, I tell myself in the fiction, and that “for the first time” drives me crazier than anything else.

The rhythm of both hands syncs up. One on the cock, already fast, no pretense; the other in back, pressing in time. My breathing has turned ragged. I let the air out through my mouth in little pants that bounce off the apartment’s silence and make me feel a little ashamed and a lot more aroused.

***

I’m not thinking in sentences anymore. There’s no story left, no screen, no protagonist with a name. Only the body remains, the heat, the pressure gathering in one point and starting to spill over. My cock is at the limit. I squeeze it, let go, squeeze again, deliberately delaying what I know is inevitable, stretching the edge a few seconds longer because the brink is almost better than the fall.

I think of all of them at once. Not just Mariela: all the women I’ve invented over the years, the ones whose stories are already finished and the ones still waiting in half-written drafts. I summon them all, gather them into the same imaginary room, and feel each one laying claim to me. Mouths, hands, tongues, skins that only ever existed on a screen and now surround me, touch me, push me toward the precipice.

Pleasure rises like a tide that no longer obeys. My thighs tighten, my belly contracts, the air gets stuck in my throat. I squeeze my eyelids shut so hard I see flashes.

And then I explode.

***

The orgasm is long, deep, the kind that splits you in two. I come with a rough groan I can’t control, in waves that follow one after another, each one a little less violent than the last but all equally absolute. The cum spills over my hand, over my stomach, warm and thick, and in my head it spills over all of them: over Mariela’s mouth, over her breasts, over the skin of every woman I’ve ever put on a page.

I come all over my own stories. I fill them all, mark them all, make them mine in the only way they can truly be mine: inside my head, where no one else enters and where nothing is forbidden to me.

I stay still for a few seconds, breath coming hard and my heart pounding. Little by little the room settles back into place: the desk, the lamp, the hum of the fan, the screen still lit with the half-written sentence. Mariela is once again only that, words in a document. And I’m me again, a tousled guy at two-thirty in the morning with a dirty hand and an idiotic smile.

***

I clean up, get comfortable, catch my breath. I reread the last paragraph I’d left unfinished and laugh to myself, because it doesn’t even make sense: I wrote it already way too horny, the words came out in a rush, there’s a comma where there should be a period and an adjective repeated twice. It doesn’t matter. I’ll fix it tomorrow.

Because that’s what nobody understands when they ask me why I write these stories if almost nobody reads them. I don’t write them so people will read them. I write them for this: for the exact instant when the story stops being mine and becomes flesh, when a woman who doesn’t exist makes me tremble more than many who did.

I turn off the lamp. I leave the document open, the cursor blinking at the end of the unfinished sentence, waiting for me. Tomorrow there will be another scene, another woman, another invented name. And once again, inevitably, I’ll end up coming all over them.