I will actually let you decide if it is a true story. I already know where the truth lies in this tale of electronic intemperance. It also started near the end of November 2020, just around the time I encountered my muse. There were some good happenings in that freaking year, and for me, ancient email showcased the best sexy words and, yes, sex, virtual sex, that is, and the only time I have ever had sex with anyone via email and involving a beautiful woman from the Czech Republic. That was a mouthful of words. I just love Prague: the new Paris of the EU. Forget Paris! Remember Prague! It could be Prague’s new slogan. When is the next flight? If it was not for the pandemic, I would have surely gone to Prague to see my Eiffel Tower.
I emailed her about her words. She emailed me back about my words and added many more of hers. I emailed back, of course, with some words in French, her favourite words. She emailed me back in French and I became stiff like a morning baguette. I could not resist. I just cannot touch those carb-filled things. Back and forth it went like a universal copulation, except that only the words were making love to each other. We were still just writing words of love and sex. And then came descriptions of positions. I want to become your chair, was one, if I remember. It did not work that well at first. It was a mess on my hand. She was a queen, a master of masturbation. Each one of her phrases was like a pull on my prick, a pluck at my perturbed poetry.
Back and forth it went, and one night, for me, early morning, for her, we orgasmed at about the same time. She described her after-wetness and I detailed my cleaning up. It only happened once. It was an interesting experience of how words can make love and even fuck. Lust at some instances took over our souls. I would have given my life at that moment to be really with her, but she never appreciated the poetry of the act. You get to love your love and then you die. I cannot describe a better death.
We kept writing to each other but the words became economical, with every spark rapidly dimmed by some words. Email sex was a one-night stand, but it never happened, really. Did it? I must have forgotten. It was over within a number of emails.
-----
My hands miss her breasts, but I do not miss her now, at this moment. I miss her pussy, but that is another story, a whole book. Her pussy was my cosmos for almost a year. I got a room, alright; regrettably, with a view of her breasts. I miss her breasts, and her pussy, of course, and also her hair and the sphere that it envelopes. The rest of her body was smooth like the sky in June 2021.
My hands miss her breasts, but I also miss her head, especially her eyes, and her nose, and her lips, and her mouth, open, smiling, and then laughing, and my chest flooding and feeling at sea, in Greece, not far from Crete, where Goddess Athena is going to wed a mortal because She loves him. But that is another story as well, which has not been written yet, maybe since her soul will not let me be myself.
My hands miss her breasts, but I also miss her soul, although we do not have the same meaning for it. Her soul is all of her alive. When I die, my soul will die with me, whereas her soul will never die because she believes that souls continue on to future bodies, enriching the system, the so-called consciousness of the Cosmos, a.k.a the Whole. I could never accept such a belief. So, we suffer most of our lives for the Cosmos to enrich itself with details of our suffering. How Christian! How Eastern! The programme running the Cosmos does not give a shit about us and our AI, but that is another story too.
My hands miss her breasts, but I also miss her. It was not meant to be, or it was only caused to last a little while, less than a year, almost a year, filled with bliss of hands touching and rubbing, mouths kissing and licking, and souls coupled when the time was right, for her, as I was always ready to receive her, even in my dreams. Alas, time was not kind; she was not either, although she believed that she was.
My hands miss her breasts, but she does not miss me. I do not know if her breasts miss me. She never mentioned it, even in an email.
About the Creator
Patrick M. Ohana
A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. Most of my pieces (over 2,200) are or will be available on Shakespeare's Shoes.
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