I leaned forward and pressed my lips to the tentacles surface. Tentatively I ran my tongue along the shaft and felt it shudder with pleasure. It tasted exotic and slightly sweeter than I had expected. I brought my mouth to the tip of the tentacle and wrapped my lips around it. The plant liked it. I had to show that I was willing to be good to it first before I asked it to pleasure me. I ran my tongue along its surface and began pulling more into my mouth before letting it slide back out, pausing a moment around the slightly thicker head to suck before taking it back inside. In my mind I sensed the plants pleasure. But the aphrodisiac was absorbing quickly into my system and I felt myself growing wetter. The plant knew I was craving its touch. It was eager to oblige. I slid the tentacle from my mouth, giving the tip a final flick with my tongue, before sliding out of my robe and tossing it aside. I had already positioned a table nearby which would place me at the perfect height to. But naturally even she disappeared from my life just as easily as the rest, especially when the love of my life told me he fantasized about her. I could never see her the same way as before, after picturing him entering her, even if it was his sick daydream. Sometimes I pick up the box, the one we all have somewhere hidden in our homes or garages or storage units. The one with the dried flowers, cards, letters, mixed tapes, stuffed animals, dirty photos, anything he or she might have left behind. I have letters that I read. Text and email transcripts. Some horrible poetry. I bring this box out when I need to cry and can’t, but now it doesn’t work for me anymore. I read the letters, wonder if their wives have ever seen some of the shit I’ve written, and try like hell to cry or feel or anything. And I can’t. I picture the sex. I picture the cocks. And I can’t feel. I can’t cry. Not until I remember that I wasn’t good enough for a single one, and every one of them left me. And this.
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