Looling in a Mirror

 

I am anonymous, a faceless form in the crowd moving though the people, saying nothing, just walking. At night I return home and lool at myself in the mirror. Lool? You may ask, yes I lool at myself, I have no other choice. I might look had I a face, but faceless, I lool at the mirror, lool at the people in the street and, in the bar, I lool at the faceless women.

I see breasts and the firm imprint of nipples in blouses, the fine curve at her hips and the firm feel of a tight ass. We might dance once and whisper possibilities before sipping at liquid courage or anesthetic before returning and dancing again, this time groping our way into a departure, her place or mine? When we disappear two more faceless faces meet, dance, drink and grope their way home for the night.

A name fails to mark us as the door opens and we stumble, mumbling into the room. In the light we could be discerning if not for the drinks, instead we come to know each other as the clothes are removed. The small breasts with tiny, but hard nipples rest against a hairy chest, once firm, but now slightly slacken with age. Soft luxurious curls above the delicate lips tangle in the wiry black hair above a quickening cock. Fingers enter and tongues taste as we learn about each other.

Ah, but all is just preparation for the formal introduction as a cock slides deep into a pussy, each thrust a whispered conversation, each moan a confession and the arching ecstasy simply the prelude to a farewell. We remember each other until the cum dries on our bodies and we wash it off in the shower. Ready to go home, we lool in the mirror and see only a mirror.

"Goodbye, I enjoyed it."

"Call me?"

"Sure."

Phone number, hell what was her name? She was the one at the Red Wing or was it the Cat Jazz Bar? An aching head and it's all so hard to remember now, just empty chalk marks on pavement and John/Jane Doe on ice, forgotten long ago. Home's three blocks away, two blocks there and one block up and I can't remember her breasts.

Once home I push the key in the keyhole with the same commitment I pushed my cock into her pussy last night, lingering a moment before turning it and opening the door. I pull the key out, wipe the cum from its tip and toss it on the counter, with my wallet, and a condom I didn't use.

"I've got to be more careful," I tell myself, "it's the anonymous killer," and no one seems to care.

Looling in the mirror I hear my neighbor shout, "Ass hole is definitely right. He's got hiself a big one in the middle of his face." I wonder why he said that, wonder where he's from; he bangs upon his ceiling and stomps across the floor. That's all I ever hear from him, I wonder if he's real.

Turning on the shower I take off my clothes and feel the damp spot still festering in my groin, and I remember now, not her breasts, I've forgotten those but yes, it was the way her hair curled just above her clit. It would have been nice to burrow my nose there, feel her vibrant pubes tickle my nostrils as I smelled the moist heat of her cunt, but I haven't a face.

My cock is coated with her, some still damp, some dry, flaking off onto the floor. I'll wash her away soon but for now I remember the delicate curve of her lips, the way they stretched out as I pulled my cock out and how they folded in when I thrust into her. She might have been beautiful and her pussy was very wet.

I step into the shower, let the hot water run over my head and down my body. I lather up my hands and scrub every memory of her away, just a quick fuck twirling down the drain. Once I scrub her from me I climb from the tub and mirror the face to shave, but faceless I fail flailing at nothing, whiskers in the air.

Looling closer I think I see it, a distant spot, a speck, a fleck of somethingness in the nothingness, no longer anonymous you can almost hear, instead you read what he almost said... nothing, just nothing at all. His name among the nameless, his face among the dead.