Do you believe in love at first sight?
Love is a chemical reaction of the brain, a foolish notion, a product of imagination and the corruption of too much of an idea called 'romance'.
He can prove it. Easy as planting a thought, twisting a slight attraction into full blown obsession. Destroy a relationship of 'soulmates' with a whim. Love is a fluid, transactional thing.
Everytime he goes out, whereever there are people, whereever there's thought, he gets ambushed by the thoughts of 'love'. I love him because he has kind hands. I love her for her smile. I love the way he smells. I love how she touches me. I love him for the way he looks. I love her because she's the only one for me. Stupid things, and it amuses him to plant a whisper of dissent in their minds. Nothing overblown, never too much. An idea is all it takes for a 'perfect' romance to fall apart.
He thinks of it, sometimes, as doing a service. Dispelling illusions, and replacing them with the cold truth of reality.
When he's thrusting into a warm body, or when someone elsse is fucking him, accompanied by the wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and the gutteral moans and utterances, it's not 'making love'. It's fucking, pure and simple, though perhaps pure is the wrong word for something as carnal and base. Hot fire of scratches against his skin, flare of a bite against his shoulder or the liquid thrust of a tongue in his mouth. Sometimes, when picking up a random stranger in a nightclub, a body for him to use and forget, he catches the stray thought of 'love'. It makes him laugh, cruelly perhaps, and ride them faster, harder, more until the end where there's nothing of love and only of self and satisfaction and the pleasure that can be gained from the other.
There is no such thing as 'love', but he knows 'lust'. Hot and heavy and seductive, visceral and there in a way love never is.
He can prove it. Easy as planting a thought, twisting a slight attraction into full blown obsession. Destroy a relationship of 'soulmates' with a whim. Love is a fluid, transactional thing.
Everytime he goes out, whereever there are people, whereever there's thought, he gets ambushed by the thoughts of 'love'. I love him because he has kind hands. I love her for her smile. I love the way he smells. I love how she touches me. I love him for the way he looks. I love her because she's the only one for me. Stupid things, and it amuses him to plant a whisper of dissent in their minds. Nothing overblown, never too much. An idea is all it takes for a 'perfect' romance to fall apart.
He thinks of it, sometimes, as doing a service. Dispelling illusions, and replacing them with the cold truth of reality.
When he's thrusting into a warm body, or when someone elsse is fucking him, accompanied by the wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and the gutteral moans and utterances, it's not 'making love'. It's fucking, pure and simple, though perhaps pure is the wrong word for something as carnal and base. Hot fire of scratches against his skin, flare of a bite against his shoulder or the liquid thrust of a tongue in his mouth. Sometimes, when picking up a random stranger in a nightclub, a body for him to use and forget, he catches the stray thought of 'love'. It makes him laugh, cruelly perhaps, and ride them faster, harder, more until the end where there's nothing of love and only of self and satisfaction and the pleasure that can be gained from the other.
There is no such thing as 'love', but he knows 'lust'. Hot and heavy and seductive, visceral and there in a way love never is.