I’ve felt this way before, if not recently, then just acutely,
living with the duel feelings that come watching (or thinking about) another
man fucking the woman (women) I love.
This intense sense of helplessness, mingled with an odd
sexual throb, like a fan at a sporting event getting off when other team
scores.
Some men like me thrive on it, finding pleasure in watching or
thinking of it happening, tied and gagged in the corner of the bedroom as this
man, any man, friend, enemy or complete stranger takes the plunge, and she –
the one we love, the one who once loved us, laps it all up, moaning as the
bedposts pound the wall.
I got a twinge of this when she sent me that dark photo of
her friends in her apartment, as if I knew one or more of them would be pounding
the bedposts there, and my imagination filled in the pieces, maybe an illusion,
maybe unreal, but stirring up the horror of and the pleasure of thinking she
was being fucked.
This feel grew worse when I realized I had been replaced, a
cuck forced to watch as she made time with my boss, and then later his boss,
trickling her way up, when I ached to be the one hovering over her in the dark.
Pleasure and pain mingling in my blood, boiling up in me,
making me cringe while at the same time pressing that spot inside me that brings
that strange and pleasant pain, the only greater torture of my possibly being
tied up in that room and forced to watch, gagged to keep me from interrupting their
pleasure, and perhaps she loving the idea that I ached so much and could do so
little – this same intensity that time I left her at the bar, when she – just a
little drunk – flirted with the bartender, and I, the cuck that I am, sat on
the barstool beside her, unable to do anything except, finally, desperately,
perhaps wrongly, got up and left, later hearing her scream at me on the
telephone asking “Why did you leave me?”
Maybe I should have accepted it, taken the pain, enjoyed the
odd pleasure of watching her go home with him instead of me.
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