She lives lit up in tiny screens nowadays, with the bright Parisian sun filling in the air around the pictures and sounds. Her hair seems blonder, brighter, in swoops and curls, brought up one day and then flopping fashionably around her face the next. Her voice, too, sounds so colored with French, as if the cuisine has altered the very movements and gestures of her tongue.

And here, with the rainy month of April refusing to give way, it makes me feel like everything around me is so pedestrian and monochromatic. A gray New York is instantly dirty and grimy, like the forgotten and discarded day-old newspapers collecting and brooding in the corners of subway cars. The frequent showers make it all a runny and cold soup.

I tell her of work and stress and things that I shouldn’t be wasting our time with, and it fills me with regret as soon as it leaves my lips. She smiles and I forget my cares. It’s the feeling of missing her that makes it so bittersweet.

The laptop lid is closed and I put it aside. The bed feels too cold all of a sudden. It is the presence of her absence that sits heavy beside me. A terrible companion that the cheap and free porn on the internet cannot chase. Reading of blogs and other smutty narratives just fall short tonight.

And still I cannot deny the half-hard state the endless Tumblr pages (filled with shot after shot of eroticism) have left me in. And the videos on YouPorn and Redtube leave such a visceral afterimage (whether I want them to or not) that I’m filled with want.

So I shut my eyes and shield myself from everything else (from everything not her) and instead fill my senses with the last memories I have of her, the ones that seem so far away and wrapped in the misty air of recollection. From the last glimpses of her face with eyes closing and lips ready for a kiss, to the smell of her moisturizer/makeup/perfume, to the feel of her skin beneath my fingertips, to the warmth of her body on top of mine, to the reassuring sounds murmured between her lips and tongue, to the weight of her breasts pressing against my chest. I do what I can to dream her up and with me now, time and distance be damned, and to soothe this sting of need.

Her lips, yes, wide and full, then wrapped around my cock and that sharp sound of the breath rushing up her nostrils. Or the grasp of her hand at the base before she guides it in with her legs parted and her pussy (wet and) willing. The arch of her back and the tightness as she writhes beside, under, on top, and poured all over me. The twitch of my own coming harder and faster like an echo that grows instead of fading with each time I am inserted deeper and deeper into her.

But as my eyes open it is with a pain and a pop, the fantasy suddenly gone without any of the effort took to conjure it. I’m left with a second to catch my breath, gather myself and wash my hands in the bathroom, before returning to the bed, alone, deflated, and no better or worse.

(This, actually, was prepared in advance, but does fit this week’s Wank Wednesday prompt so here it is.)