As they kissed, she found herself carried away by a fantasy of such pure ego that she could hardly admit even to herself that she was having it. Look at this beautiful girl, she imagined him thinking. She’s so perfect, her body is perfect, everything about her is perfect, she’s only twenty years old, her skin is flawless, I want her so badly, I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else, I want her so bad I might die.
The more she imagined his arousal, the more turned-on she got, and soon they were rocking against each other, getting into a rhythm, and she reached into his underwear and took his penis in her hand and felt the pearled droplet of moisture on its tip.
"The Young-Girl does not mind miming submission here and there: BECAUSE SHE KNOWS IT DOMINATES. Something in this brings her in line with the masochism that has long been taught to women, which makes them cede the SIGNS of power to men in order to recover, internally, the certitude that they possess them in reality."
She’s submerged in futility as to what it means to have meaningful encounters with other people. Relationships make her feel used and thanked and abused and apologized to and then discarded at the end of it all. Is it possible to avoid getting reduced to what others expect of her?
Texting somebody when you see funny stuff in the street. When you had a weird day. Writing to somebody about all the incoherent random things that happen during a day, thereby transforming them into narrative. Producing sense. Producing form in formlessness.