Teengirl Fantasy 8AM

[Planet Mu; 2017]

Rating: 4/5

Styles: dream disco, neuropop
Others: debaser hero, Saturn’s moon Encephalus

Have a seat. Is this your first time with us?

You came here before with your ex. But this is your first time alone.

You have a seat, noting with keen sense the memory foam on the laid-back massage chair.

You never knew it could feel this good. I told you it wouldn’t be easy.

Your therapist will be with you momentarily.

OK, thanks.

You rub your ankles, knees, and all-over. You’re tense. You’ve been the victim of a phantom itch that’s overstayed its welcome far too long.

Maybe this will be good for you. You’ve always tendered a fear of intimacy, harboring a yet paradoxical hypersexuality that’s neither healthy nor conditioning.

You fear people. That’s what it is.

No. You have lots of friends. Your coworkers call you “movie bud.” You’re well-liked.

You’re rough around the edges. I know you too well now…

Good afternoon. I’m your therapist. I’ll be helping you relax today.


You’re a little nervous. You’ve never seen someone with such soft skin before.

You wonder what the therapist’s routine is.

You gaze, feeling the warmth from excitement.

Under the skylight, we’re the same soil.

Stop that.

And so it starts. You enter again to tear it apart.

Between us, but I’m feeling instead of flowing, flailing.

The therapist lays bare hand to your cold corpus, somehow knowing the details without ever having known you.

It’s a double-entendre, but you’re barely there.

I just wanna see you win this life, I just wanna feel you in my arms.


You say I’m better than I’ll ever know.

What does it matter if all we are is matter?

That’s a stupid thought.

The therapist caresses you excitedly, like a moon to a star. The therapist’s here now, palpating your soft indentations, taking measure of your silent intonations.

The tide is high and it’s almost time, but you’re not ready.

The therapist takes you by the mouth, warm, steady.

You’ve never been in love before, but maybe this is it.

It’s like an oral vacuum.

That’s crude, but shy.

The therapist takes turns gazing at you and relaxing the touch on your tender points of pleasure. You’re one giant erogenous zone.

Stop thinking things like that.

It’s over. You’re done now. Quicker than it started.

You don a provided white, silken robe and confront the silence behind your little mortis.

Head in hand, you cry a little.

Maybe we can fall, together.

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