A lesson for us all
Dear scandalized cafe lady,
If you didn't want to be exposed to graphic tentacle porn, you shouldn't have been sneaky reading over my shoulder. I'm not the asshole here.
Love and kisses,
Dani
If you didn't want to be exposed to graphic tentacle porn, you shouldn't have been sneaky reading over my shoulder. I'm not the asshole here.
Love and kisses,
Dani
It's two years after her divorce when she realizes that she's alone and doesn't know what to do with herself anymore, aimlessly clicking around on the internet, late at night. As you do. And an inkling of a memory forms in her mind. Of that day in the cafe, when she'd seen something she'd never seen before and hadn't seen since. tentacles, she types into the search engine, bracing herself because she knows enough about the internet that this gamble could pay off in squids or... or... that.
At first the images are shocking and she has to click to web results instead of images. And she sees something. An Archive of our Own. And she clicks. And she reads. And she squirms. But somehow the twist of disgust and discomfort has changed. She's warm. Uncomfortably so. She glances around her darkened bedroom furtively, even though there's nobody there to catch her.
And she keeps reading. And reading. And reading.
Days later, she's downloading fic on her phone and reading on her commute. She always tilts her body away from the crowd, toward the window, and uses the lowest backlight setting so nobody can tell what she's reading from the reflection on the window. She feels a secret thrill, a sexual charge she hasn't experienced since the first blush of love with her now ex-husband, when everything was breathless and new and good.
Another night, at home, she thinks back again to that cafe, to that image, and she types in tentacles, ready this time, a veritable connoisseur of depravity with an understanding that just because it's strange, doesn't make it wrong. There's room for many things in your fantasy life. ANd she looks and she searches and she finds that image again. And she stares.
The artist really couldn't draw feet, she thinks with a wince of sympathy, though she now can appreciate the bulge of a cheek being face-fucked by a tentacle and the surplus of purple penises waving in the air. She can imagine, in the safety of her brain, that kind of loss of control and that helplessness and the unwilling pleasure in being so thoroughly used. It's kind of hot.
There's a whisper in the air, so faint she's almost certain that she's imagined it.
Welcome to fandom. We have tentacles. Of love.
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