Maria Agostina Biritos
Blue. My world is filled with blue. His eyes. His All-American fairy-fucking-tale prince-charming blue eyes. And he is all mine. He is blond. Dirty glossy honey blond with sunny highlights. And he is all mine. Dreamy smile, scintillating pearly teeth, delicious velvety lips. And yes, he is all mine. Says so on the purchase invoice. Oh! Sorry, you thought for a second a guy like the one I was describing actually exists? No such luck. I bought it. Runner Build, Height: 5’8’’, Weight: 90-95 lbs pounds, Chest: 36’’. Default technical product specifications. I got to choose the eye color, though. Blue. Without as much as a blink. 7 inches (yup, average-ish). My very own sex doll. My Ken. That’s his name, I didn’t make it up. It says so on his birth certificate; well you know his warranty certificate is more accurate. The new generation of Ken dolls for a more mature audience we could say. And that’s the name they get. An attempt to humanize them. No need really. Ken is as much real to me as it can be. He is the only real thing in my life to be completely honest.
Real…well they did quite a good job. Oh, those eyes. Kaleidoscopic Fourth-of-July-fireworks blue eyes. Yes, I speak a lot about his eyes, I know. Bear with me. It’s just that the blue in those eyes says “Forever” and it’s just that I happen to know it means it.
Oh, those eyes.
Everything about him is so obscenely alluring.
And I just want to stare into those blue eyes while the moonlight reflects on them and casts a diamond shine that screams “Forever.”
I bought him because I’m lonely (obviously). Maybe I wasn’t the only one who was lonely. I like to think he was as well. I like to think he went through a very hard breakup and now needs someone to nurse his heart. I want to think he is over her.
Yes, I have a lively imagination. We will play make-believe. But I just don’t know where to start.
I leave him there still half inside the box and I spend the rest of the day lying on my bed. Maybe scared, maybe excited, giggling like a little girl. Maybe, just maybe, slightly terrified.
I have a crush on this Ken doll, I thought.
It’s not only I adore his California clear-summer-sky blue eyes. You may think it is just that. But then…
But then you see his smile. His dreamily charming smile. Adorable intentions. Guilty as charged implications. Chocolate-box expressions.
Everything about him is so absorbingly arousing.
And I just want to kiss the naive purity in the left corner of his mouth at least seven times a day.
I finally get the courage to put him in my bed next to me.
Lying there looking into his wildly billowy oceanic blue eyes I feel my heart hurting a bit. I am happy because he is here. I am sad because I know he is not.
I kiss his cheek. It was an impulse. No, it was carefully premeditated. It was the thing I’ve been aching to do since I laid eyes on him. It was merely a light touch. My lips brushing his synthetic skin. It was oddly soft and warm. Real. I experience a sudden mouthwatering rush to taste him. So I do. My lips on his and I am kissing him. Deeply, passionately, desperately. Unhealthily needy. I want more of him. I place my hands on his perfect abs. I keep going south. I swear I feel the throbbing heat on his crotch. I pull his shorts down to reveal his thick cock. Wrapping my hand around it I start moving it up and down. Slow at first and then I tighten my grip and go a bit faster. I take my hand to my mouth. That manly taste. Mmm. I hurriedly put my lips on him. He flinches (definitely real) and as I give him my infamously saucy stare I let my tongue travel his length getting him wet and sticky-sweet.
His spellbindingly unfathomable blue eyes staring back at me. His anxious breathing and the veins tightly showing on his forearms. He likes it. Because He is real.
But how do you explain his hands now on my hips gently laying me on my bed and that mesmerizingly insinuating smile that promises this girl is going to be oh so satisfied in about a minute, then?
You can’t. Neither can I.
I don’t have to coach him through it. He knows what I want (maybe because he is not real and this is only happening in my head, but still, humor me would you?)
Just like that he starts kissing my pierced belly button going slowly down. His hungry predatory moonlight blue eyes staring right at me. His silky hair brushing gently my inner thigh. His insanely smooth lips placing kisses right in my hypersensitive clitoris I could actually feel engorging against his mouth. Pressing insistently. And he is not rushing it. He is leaving me wanting more. Just his lips feathery-touching me. Thrilling me, deliberately provoking me. And when finally the tip of his tongue burns me I can’t help myself and a long desperate impossibly high-pitched moan tears my throat. He keeps caressing my clitoris with his wet mouth while I feel his big hands clinging to my thighs. And without any warning he is now kissing me with a lovesickness and passion impossible to resist. His fingers knot in my tousled hair. His body temperature scorching my skin. He nibbles at my neck sending shivers down my spine that incites my nails to go deeper into the yielding skin of his back. Little kisses on my chest and a little wetness on my nipples. Catching them between his lips so gently, so roguishly, so maddeningly. My body responding to his touch, pressing insolently against him. I want him inside me. I need him inside me. And he indulges me. He moves slowly like the song and I close my eyes. I close them tight because only in absolute darkness I can pretend this second is infinite.
What a first date.
I am still tangled in my white sheets purring like a little kitty with my eyes shut tight and a drowsy smile on my lips. I hear the shower running. Then the jingle of the knob and the annoying leaking that follows. He should get it fixed.
Ken is dripping water with a towel around his waist. He runs his fingers through his hair and leaves it wild. No reason to use a comb. He is just too gorgeous in his careless style. To my awe he just drops the towel and gets a pair of black boxers from the drawers. My hand between my legs rubbing my clit just a little while I enjoy the view and give myself a very good morning. He puts on his blue check shirt. Matches his eyes. And he chooses the tie with the white flower pattern. He mixes fabric patterns like a pro. I give him that. Then again, he is just too gorgeous in his couldn’t-give-two-fucks style. I am done with euphemisms. He heads to the door.
He smiles shyly and comes towards me. There you go papi, don’t be forgetting about my kiss.
His fresh shaved baby face near mine. His delightful mint-scented breath on my mouth. He comes closer leaning on me. He whispers in my ear giving me goosies and then kisses me goodbye. I don’t remember what he said; it was all a dream after all. But I know it was the sweetest thing someone has ever said to me. I do remember his voice, though.
His intoxicatingly deep voice. The mischievous accent. Sounds like late night trysts and staring at the moon’s reflection on the ocean. Road trips, skinny-dipping tone. You-only-live-once dares and devil-may-care promises.
Everything about him is so compellingly inviting.
And I just want to take his hand and go wherever his whim may take me.
I remember now.
-I wish you could talk.
-Me too, Ken, me too.
I saw the lipstick smeared on his shirt. Red.
I wear pink. Always pink.
I wish I wore red.
Maybe he likes red better.
He’s been with another woman. I’m not crazy you know, maybe it’s not his fault. Well of course it’s not his fault. I’m sure it was the neighbor. She has a key so maybe she just got in, saw him and just went for it. Who would blame her? He is just too cute, too perfect. Too inevitable.
I feel devastated. I feel rejected. I feel I could disappear and no one will notice. He won’t notice. I’m quite aware I sound kind of mad right now talking about him like this but I think he really can listen. He understands. And he knows he’s been bad. I can read it on his face; his eyes look sad, culprit. His haunted Sunday-blues blue eyes. He is mortified and doesn’t know how to make up for it. Doesn’t know how to tell me he is sorry. But I know now. I understand. I rest my head on his shoulder and my hand on his chest. I let him know everything is okay. I let him know I forgive him for his trespasses. And believe me or not (I kind of know by now you won’t) one single tear rolls down his cheek and wets my hair. I hold on tight to him. My nails almost hurting his flesh. I’m panicking. I tighten my grip even more. I need to posses him; I need him to be only mine. He says: “Hush baby I am only yours. I have been yours since the day I laid eyes on you.” And I believe him.
Or maybe I don’t. But I pretend. Because it’s easier, because I couldn’t live without him. Because I’m selfish and I’m craven. Because I don’t want to be alone.
I am falling asleep in his arms.
Then I remember.
That day I wore red.
I realize you still don’t know my name. Full disclosure I don’t like telling my name to strangers and yes I know just how irrational that sounds if we take into consideration I’m very keen to tell you every single most intimate detail of my sexual life. Whatever. If you must know my name is Teresa, like Barbie’s Latina friend, you know, the doll. But anyways he calls me Cereza. Well at least that’s how he would call me if he was real. Have a little imagination people. He says I’m his little Latina and loves how my name sounds like cherry in Spanish. He took lessons in college apparently. He is not fluent like me but I love when he talks in Spanish. Sounds sexy, dirty and makes me want to Salsa.
I tell him I want to dance with him. Teach him how this Latina moves her hips. He says yes and laughs. That little boy’s laugh of his. Cute as you would never imagine, shameless as you would never admit. Such a small sound. Angel caller notes. Cotton candy fluffy noises. Cheekiness I find sugary tempting.
Everything about him is so arrestingly captivating
And I just want to be up to no good with his childlike soul. Guide his hands to my hips and feel his sweet blazing breath on my neck while we dance.
In this my last entry I would just like to state the obvious. I am in love with Ken. And yes I know I may be perfectly well idealizing him. Even worse, I am just dreaming him. He is not real I tell myself every day. Most certainly not. Absolutely not. Conclusively not.
HE IS NOT REAL.
Or is he?…
If you think for a second this is the story of a woman slowly losing her mind, you haven’t been paying attention.
I was there on the bed. I was always there. My long hazelnut brown hair wildly entangled resting on the white sheets. My candidly sassy pink lips (that he sometimes likes to paint red) and those eyes of mine he just won’t shut up about. Those big brown cinnamon eyes of mine he claims speak to him of innocence and naughtiness at the same time.
Yes I know what you are thinking. Oh little Cherry… you lying fuck! I may have stretched out the truth a bit. But please don’t be mad. I cannot be held responsible on account on my… well how can I put this? Inexistence. But also you should know I’m really very sorry about all this. I didn’t mean to lie to you. Didn’t actually know I was until very recently. Well not entirely accurate, maybe I knew all along, but you can’t really blame me. It’s just the way he makes me feel…
He loves me. And he lies beside me. He whispers in my ear and caresses my cheek. He kisses my hand. Nothing but terse, lifeless silicone. And he smiles.
If you think for a second this is the story of a man slowly losing his mind, you haven’t been paying attention.
What if we are both real living breathing human beings?
What if this is the way we make each other feel? Objects, deprived of feelings, deprived of life. What if this is exactly the way he makes me feel? The way I make him feel.
What if we both love not feeling human in each other’s arms? Letting our most basic instincts run wild. Give up to temptation. Passion and recklessness. Escape reality for a moment.
What if we both hate not feeling human in each other’s arms? Not talking about our dreams, our hopes and regrets. Missing the simpleness of complaining about the day at the office, the boss and the bills. Missing the laughs and cuddles. Escape reality for a moment.
What if we are both just two sex dolls holding hands in a dark hidden warehouse?
What if we are both real living breathing human beings?
What if this is Love?
And we just don’t know what’s REAL anymore.
Maria Agostina Biritos is from Argentina. She is twenty-six years old, and a recently-graduated lawyer with a writer’s heart. Her pieces explore Beauty and Romance in a non-conventional way, with a touch of magic and a taste of madness.