Yeah, I still want to fuck you. Yes, I think about fucking you every day.

I think about your precious sphincter slowly opening up to my finger.

The little gasp you always let out when I break through.

The way your whole ass tightens and clenches my finger right after that gasp.

And the subsequent release as you start playing with your clit to loosen yourself up.

The way your breasts heave as I start thrusting in and out of you.

How much just one finger of mine, even the littlest one, can put your whole body in rapture really amazes me.

I loved getting to look over your whole body as you laid there:

  • The perfect hair, straight out of an eighties “best of” clip show.
  • That beautiful face, the Cindy Lou Who nose with the ScarJo lips and the daring eyes.
  • The monarchical neck in all its elegance, meeting with those perfectly sloped shoulders.
  • Tits, of course, but people have told you all about those for your whole life.
  • Your belly, though, just the right everything. Not anorexic like the magazines want you to think is best. Nor fat, which the magazines are right to tell you to avoid. You’ve got that ideal middle point that our language doesn’t even seem to have a word for.
  • Hips are ace: surely no one has ever contested that?
  • Pussy like tits, why reiterate purple prose?
  • Those fucking thighs. Those thighs I wanted to cut up into a million fucking pieces. And the way they’d tremble just a little.

I get that this has connotations I don’t mean, but I felt like a puppetmaster. Just a pinky finger up your ass and I could send you lunging for your crotch eager as all hell. I’d kneel there, looking over you as you shook and heaved, bringing yourself over the edge with just my smallest appendage working in and out of you.

It felt great. The hug of the muscles within your ass always felt so good on whatever part of me I managed to get inside you. You lying there being gorgeous. It overwhelms me now; it really does.

There isn’t a point to this, I know. Maybe that’s why memories of ex-lovers are so terrible: there’s no point to them. You won’t learn from them the way the movies say, and you can’t will them into being by focusing the way you hope to. It’s just the refuse of the past interfering with the present. My writing this is not a magical incantation. It’s not that good for jerking off to. When you read it, you won’t call me. If you jerk off to it, you’ll feel sad the second after you get off. You receiving this won’t mean that the next time I see you, I’ll be allowed to follow you into the bathroom and eat you out while you piss.

It’s amazing all the nothing it means. It doesn’t mean I’ll find a shrink who can help me. It doesn’t mean I’ll have a revelatory dream tonight. It doesn’t mean you’ll throw it out and it’ll get found by a perverted pixie who’ll then look me up. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me, either. It doesn’t mean I need any of the above to happen. It means nothing, except that I miss fucking you. That I miss trying to guess what panties you were wearing as I ripped your clothes off. I miss taking whatever panties they were and stuffing them down your throat. I miss you asking for more. I miss cumming on your face. I miss you not cleaning it up out of respect.

You might feel the same, but it wouldn’t matter if you did.


“Matter” is an excerpt from Richard Power’s new memoir, Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.