‘There on the landing sits the typewriter. It is clogged with dust, the ribbon dried and flimsy. Looking at it gives Felix a feeling close to vertigo. He realises he can replicate in his head the exact sound it used to make. The clac-clac-a-clac of the metal letters hitting the paper, the ribbon raising itself each time to make the impression. The machine-gun fire of it, when the work was going well. The stops and pauses when it wasn’t, to allow for a sigh, a draw on a cigarette.’
Maggie O’Farrell, The Hand That First Held Mine

Typing - an image of a typewriter
The typewriter is old and dusty, its ribbon worn and cracked. Typing is hard work; I must pound the keys to get a response. No delicate actions – my keystrokes must be determined, so my words must be certain. I must know what I want to say. I must know what I want.

But I can’t find the words. Letters and sounds ricochet around my skull, bouncing together to form sentences that split apart when I try to tie them down. They race away from me, faster than I can think, and are lost again.


Simply, slowly; deliberately. The ink of each letter indelibly marks the paper as the key smashes against it.













Unequivocal and unquestioned. I mouth the sounds as I type. The hard, guttural consonant and the round vowel before a sharp, staccato finish. Cunt. Just saying it gives me some release; the laces pulling at my insides seemed looser, I have more room to breathe.

I could never find these words out loud. When I want to speak, I drown in hissing static. It takes my mind too long to search in the noise; I need time to consider my choices. So instead, I write the words down, to hear them together and let their sound wash over me, to feel them live.













Can I describe the feeling? Glistening, wet, soaking, aching; I rub my cunt while I type to relive what I am describing. Squeezing, shocking, shuddering, stretching; I tease through cliches while slipping my finger over my clit. Trembling, soft, yielding flesh; gasping at pressure changes, moaning at the mounting sensation. My hands know my body too well, my mind cannot keep up.













Can I communicate the anticipation? Can I explain the exquisite agony of waiting? His hands gripping my hips, his cock easing into my eager cunt but still holding back, making me plead. Can I describe the overflowing, liquid release as he plunges into me? Can words ever do this justice?













No, they can’t. Even with hours to craft perfect sentences, far beyond the crude statements that shout from the typewriter, I couldn’t capture the subtlety, the beauty, the ecstasy of what I feel.

But that’s not why I pulled the typewriter out of its box on the top shelf and carefully threaded the thick, ivory paper in place. It’s not why I sit at my desk with the sunlight streaming in, typing words that turn me on. Searching for the right word reminds me of what I felt, despite only being a coarse reflection. How soft was his skin? How hard were his kisses? How did his cock feel?

I sit and type and remember. I type and stroke my cunt as I write about it; I type and lick my lips at the memories; I type until I am spent.


And then I read what I’ve written, and begin all over again…

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