I watch you, standing motionless and quiet, your glass eyes gazing over me at the wall behind. Carefully, I step onto the pedestal with you, not wanting to imbalance it and send you falling, and once my equilibrium is certain, I embrace your plastic body, kissing your solid, unmoving lips.
You are an object of purest lust to me, the hollow shell of a woman without any center. Unfeeling, unyielding, uncaring, undenying. You are cold and calloused, unable to look me in the eye, your molded expression permanently dismissive of my sincerity; and yet, you are the ultimate woman: you do not judge me for my depravity, you do not push me away, you are infinitely accepting.
My manhood stiffens, causing all sophistry and validation to fall wayside. You are the Galatea for my Pygmalion, and I will offer a sacrifice of my seed to the goddess Aphrodite. Having no true womanhood, I am called to improvise upon you, rubbing myself along the contours of your fiberglass form as a dog humps a leg. I grind myself against your hard, smooth, painted skin, gazing into your unmoving, unblinking eyes as I rise to orgasm.
There can be nothing within you; only a pretty statue stands allowing my perversity, but in the moment of passion, in that happy eclipse of the sun where all that is sacred or reasonable goes dark to the shadow of the animal, I look in your eyes, and I see love.
And I love you, too.