CNN Goon Cave

Narrative Masturbatory Practice and Trauma Pornography

Tell me I can cum

Tell me to cum on your dick

Tell me you want me

Tell me…

I am posting on a Wednesday night. Phone on vibrate, maximum vibration. I am sitting on my new light grey couch. I would have gotten white, but my kids really can’t be trusted around white. My wine is chilled next to me on a coaster. Something nice. Not too nice though, a dry white. Just like me for the last year, until tonight.

My husband’s 80-inch flat screen has News Mix on, my iPad mini is playing my favorite video podcast with Bret Weinstein. A real man. My heated blanket drapes over my legs, my phone positioned between the thigh gap of my yoga pants. I’m still a skinny bitch, you know that.

Buzz

Buzz

I readjust the phone; wannabes and their tap backs are throwing me off. 8 pm and my kids are asleep. My husband is at work like a good little wage cuck. What are other moms doing? Waiting for me to say something to instigate them. Their husbands all know who I am. I know we are all watching. I promised my therapist I would stop doing this. Mixing gabapentin and white wine, posting and watching the news. But something special has been happening these past few weeks. I’ve earned this vacation. It’s not relapsing if it’s a choice. I’m taking it slow. I’m barely doing anything.

Different apps, different notifications, each variable buzz, each one brings me closer to losing…

It’s not masturbation if I don’t touch myself right. My phone happens to be there. I am not some dirty slut looking for attention, mid tucking my sweater to talk to Mr. Lee at parent-teacher night for more than the allotted seven minutes. He’s black, not Asian; thought I should clarify. Wearing a push-up bra at 34 Amanda, stop acting like a whore. Opening your marriage to explore your sexuality. Thinking that cutting your hair is going to make your husband want you again? I need to reframe. I need another screen.

Tell me…

‘X’ is open on my second iPad, the really big one my husband got because he can’t see well. Children are being pulled out of the rubble. It’s a mystery box. A grand surprise: I’m on the edge of my seat. Not really, I’m just edging. My hands have been taking a tighter grip on my inner thighs as I adjust myself around my phone. No wonder my kids are spending so much on loot boxes and mystery skins. The anticipation is all part of the fun. How old? Were they beheaded? How were they victimized? Was it an ICBM, a traditional explosive, or maybe even a suicide bomber? I hope they find a vest. Maybe even his footage. Do they have GoPros there?

It was the perfect time to post, so many eyes on me because I know what’s right. I need someone strong to tell me what to think. Let me imagine them.

Tell me…

Wolf Blitzer is on the TV. Fuck. Segment change. I was so close. I’d rather see that cunt Erin Burnett. Maybe I should pull up a classic on the second screen. Really set the mood. Bret Weinstein can shut the fuck up, little loser, get a real show. I want Cuomo again.

Remember them, two beautiful brothers, telling me what to think and why to think it. When I was stuck with my husband at home during COVID, I had to hide to fantasize about being locked in the covid basement with the Cuomo brothers. I could cure their boredom when he wasn’t being interviewed, no tight little lying staffers to take his wandering eyes away from me. I mean isolation for a week, maybe two with them, away from home, with nothing to do. Have them tell me everything is going to be okay while watching hospitals overflow and cruise ships become biotoxin slaughterhouses for the recently retired. Helping him draft the legislation condemning thousands of elderly to a timely death inside a nursing home while we watch the death count rise and rise. All while they comfort me, tie me to a radiator, and use me.

…I can cum

I’ve been waiting for this for a year- something to make me feel again. New body camera footage. I love POV videos. It feels so real. Like they are looking into my eyes. I can see their desperation. I can almost feel their hollow bones, smell their burnt skin. Seeing past the blurred filter. Let me imagine it again. My legs are twitching with anticipation.

My river…

I am vulnerable right now. I am acting out. I am holding these images of them in my head. The different bodies I have seen, the different windows into the soul. Cuomo is talking to me. There is a ringing silence, just the buzz of my phone, the feeling of slight shivers throughout my body. I’ll let my hand wander, I am just adjusting my shirt. Feeling through the Lulu top to tease myself a little bit. I am already poking out; the girls need to breath. It’s not like I’m going need this top anyway. The shadow of my figure is in the foyer; my perky and firm silicone implants rest perfectly on my chest when I lean back like this. Dr. Rosenstein did such a good job fixing me up after Everleigh’s birth. I have to admire all of his work. Especially his reconstitution of my womanhood.

My sea…

I slide my fingers down to readjust my phone from inside. Up a little bit more and to the right. That side has always been more sensitive. I accidently graze up against myself. I’ll just check and see if it is for real this time. A moment of pain followed by a release of pleasure. I imagine it's someone else, the newsroom forming itself into more than just my finger curling up inside me. Every bit of audio and flashing lights that surrounds me forms itself. That Cuomo is standing above me with his pierced nipple and barreled chest, his brother behind him.  What are they talking about. I hope it’s me. I am speeding up. One finger should be enough. It has been a year since I’ve been this excited. Engrossed in the potential for ecstasy. I never even really cared about Ukraine. I was faking it. All those nights in front of the TV, those drives, those stickers - nothing compares to what the second finger is helping me do.

I need your permission

More urgency, more ecstasy, more glamor, more. I crank the volume; my notifications are still going. Vibrations are pulsations. How long has it been? Are my eyes open or closed? I’ve seen this news cycle so many times I already know the images, the videos, the talking points. I thought things were about to get good. Dry heaving. If they are rerunning this segment so am I. Something needs to happen. I need more. I am matching the rhythmic drum of gun fire to the thrusting of my fingers. Each bullet flying above the target is another sensation, another moment of becoming one’s self, one step closer to completion.

Open your eyes and watch

I look down to see my blanket is off. I am dripping down from my wrist to my thighs, the couch has become an increasingly darker grey. It’s a POV on the TV. There is an airlift. The audio is cutting out. It all looks so real. A Samsonite Jew in a press uniform is telling me what is going on, but I’m not listening. My mind is fully engulfed. The image. The feeling. I haven’t stopped going. Faster, but controlled, still controlled.

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

I am lost. Whether my eyes are open or closed I see the litter of bodies, decapitated, slaughtered, and molested. Waves are hitting me as I muffle my scream with my hand. Quivering moments of excitement shutter through my thighs and stomach. The cool touch of my athletic wear is making the heat bearly bearable. Deep shaky breaths rattle my frame, I thought it wasn’t going to happen; that the moment has passed. That novelty is over, I have become desensitized. All I needed was more. To feel it. To lose it. To take it.

A minute later it subsides. The TV is quiet again. I am still watching. More sprawled out than before I put my top back on and pull up my bottom set. Check my phone to see what people have been saying. Nothing I haven’t seen before. No one is even trying. In this world a girl has just got to do it herself. Doesn’t anyone else care what’s happening?

I regain my balance to walk over to the kitchen for another glass. I’ve earned it. My husband’s car pulls into the driveway. Whatever lingering vibrations silenced themselves. The 2021 Land Rover. Faggot. He better not try and touch me tonight.