I sort of cringe when I think about him looking at her pictures. I imagine him mentally tracing his fingers along her virtual facial bones and then down the digital curves of her body, until his breath catches in his throat. Men used to serenade us with stringed instruments and sweet voices. Now it’s all the jingle of zippers and raspy breathing. Sweet nothings caressing earlobes whispered to us from across the pillows, now replaced with lewd mumbles referencing our genitals from the other side of the screen… and the truth is I’m standing ten paces behind him, in spirit, watching the way the glow of the monitor makes his cheeks look sunken in — almost hollow — like a sex famished skeleton. I roll my eyes and turn my head before he pulls out his cock. I pretend that I’m annoyed, but the reality is that I’m jealous; I’m a little disgusted with myself… because I can’t help but wish that he was jerking off to me.
Jazzy’s note: I’ve felt this way many many times.