TGP

Downtrodden
unshaved undressed
he slumps in his
private temple before
the altar of unreachable,
staring for a second
into the darkness that
soon, oh so soon
will shine him into
sweet salvation.

A shaking sweaty finger
caress the rubbery erect
protruding button before
pushing in, all the way in
letting an electric load
erupt into dreamy
digital depths.

The screen flutters
and the diodes wink a
"Yes, right there!",
in reassurance that
there is at least one
that craves his caress,
one that he can always
turn on.

Within seconds he is greeted
by that familiar loving groan,
the warm purring of
hardcore loaded hard drives
and swooning star-struck fans
giving the overdrive processor
a well deserved blow job.

And deep within
both man and machine,
the heat is rising.

A few swift clicks,
and a driving rattle
of building bytes
opens the pearly white,
maximized gateway.

With a trembling request
by a flick on the smooth
sensitive scrolling wheel
and a well timed push,
heaven pours out,
filling the screen
with dazzling glow
of beauty, youth
willingness and wanton
beyond any possible belief.

It is time.

He has mastered
the left-handed mouse control
especially for those aching
moments of wallowing worship.

He knows what he wants
as he hungrily scans
the spectacular spectra
of flash and flesh,
expose and degrade
for that certain look,
that delicate difference
that will rush his blood,
twitch his groin and please
a distinctive acquired taste
in the soul of a connoisseur
trapped in a world of
anything goes.

There...

...in a sea of too blond,
too cheap and too much,
a beauty so gentle,
so innocent, so true.

The goddess.

A different face every night,
but he recognizes, he knows.

She smiles for him,
for him and him alone,
glittering, glowing
with a purity and grace
that only he can see.

The goddess of everything
he will never have,
but still conquers
night after night
in the temple,
by the altar
of unreachable.

Every night
for a few fleeing seconds
he is a superstar
fucking godlike
and the huge cock,
splitting the perfection,
filling the goddess
in frame after frame behind
the teasing thumbnails,
is the same one that aches
in the cunt of his palm.

And when he shoots,
he shoots an aviating load
that lands across her
pixilated lips
and dribbles down
the glassy screen
to chin and throat
and out of frame.

Then it's over.
He leans back,
words her a "thank you",
and closes the gateway.

Soon he will be
ever so unclean
and downtrodden
that the need
for superstardom
and fucking godlike
will send him, once again
scanning for the goddess,
night after night
after long, lonely night.

In another private temple
not too far away,
a girl as innocent and true
as any thumbnailed dream
will ever be,
cries in solitude.

Asking what,
"What do I do wrong?"
Asking why,
"Why won't he look at me?"