Donny loves mirrors. He loves to strategically place his full-length Wal-Mart, and therefore somewhat funhousey, though in a flattering way, dressing mirror at the side of the bed when he fucks me. He likes it even better when he stands in front of it, and I stand behind him, his cock in my hands, rubbing it until he comes and splatters his own image with his jizz.
Lately, he’s been enjoying putting the mirror at the head of his bed, sandwiched between his rolly bed and the plaster wall. Lately, he’s been enjoying putting me on all fours in front of the mirror, my naked haunches high and round, his body rising triumphant above me, the better fuck me and to watch himself both in the reality of flesh and in the reflection of the mirror.
He likes to see my face as his cock plunges into me fully and he likes to see my pussy at the same moment, and really the mirror is the only way that he can see both from the same view, my anatomy being what it is and what it is is limited by my definite lack of carnivalesque acrobaticism.
I do not share Donny’s unequivocal love of the mirror. I am deeply, profoundly ambivalent about the mirror. My ambivalence rests in the crack between the prurient pleasure of watching and the appalling sight of my own flesh. Perception may be reality, or at least as much percentage-wise as possession is of law, and my perception is a bit skewed. I have been, will ever be, hostage to my own dysmorphic view of my body, a view that sometimes represents itself as larger than it really is, and other times as smaller, and is never, ever something I can trust.
There on my knees in front of the mirror, I see my thighs jiggle and my breasts sway. I see the delicate moon-surface of my cellulite. I see the silver snaking lines of my stretch marks. In each bounce and thrust and jostle and slap, I see the bits and pieces of myriad fleshly failings. It’s disconcerting, for I see too the graceful symphony of curves that make up the swell of my waist into my lower back, the rivulet of my spine, the peachy cleft of my ass, its generous and good-natured spread. And this, as much as the sight of my lover towering above the bucolic landscape of my raised ass, his face intent and focused, his hands spreading me open like two halves of a ripe tropical fruit, is all very hott-making.
This is all very pleasurable, as much as it is horrifying. Hence, the ambivalence.
But all of this—my pastoral and fecund ass, Donny’s towering presence, my perceived faults and my attendant horror—is familiar ground. I have seen it, seen it all, reveled in it, enjoyed it, castigated myself for it, all of it, before. It is well-trodden ground. What is wholly unfamiliar is my face.
We all of us have a “mirror face”; it is the face we think of when we think of what we look like. Some of us purse our lips, raise our eyebrows, narrow our eyes, whatever. We have a face and we make it. It is as familiar to us as our scent. We are no longer aware of doing the mirror face, as we really have no idea what our ordinary smell is—only when something extraordinary shocks us out of our quotidian oblivion are we made aware, and such is the case of the fuckface.
My face when Donny and I are fucking bears no resemblance to the me I expect to see reflected in the embattled face of the mirror. Gone my usual expression of alert snarkiness. Gone the happy cynicism around the mouth and eyes. Gone the blades of my cheekbones, the intelligent set of my lips, the expectant cast of my forehead.
Gone the person I know.
Instead, there is this face that looks discomposed, altered, unformed. Rougher, somehow, slack-mouthed and blank about the eyes. My eyes look older. I find this feral face, this secret face that has replaced, in the slow and wending course of our foreplay, my public mask.
Yesterday, as Donny fucked me from behind, as I discovered a hot and quick rhythm on his dick, and I pushed my hips, tilted them inconceivably toward pleasure, pushed them again and again and again, short and fast strokes, a new stumbled-upon greedy sweetness, I watched my face. The orgasm stole upon me, billowing up from the bottom and lifting me along with it, this pink zephyr, my body suddenly buoyant and pleasure-lofted, and I watched my face discompose, alter, become alien.
Not that pretty at all, really, my fuckface in the mirror.
And this unpretty face, I realize, is the face that Donny prizes, as much as he loves the pussy he watches himself fuck. His private joy to make me make the face, in reflecting it back at him, it reflects both his own pleasure and his pleasure in making me make it.
Prettiness is irrelevant. This face is private. Prettiness is for the public, passion is for my lover.