‘Do laundry. All of the laundry piled on the chair and nip tonight in the bud.’ I thought as I lay on the bed with fumbling sporadic thoughts slipping through my head. Meanwhile, she undressed and her clay skin seemed to shine in the darkness. Beautiful pale skin dispelling myths which I pondered for so long as we had coffee today, as we ate Rigatoni, as we laughed and our eyes loved. Across the street from Bill’s Used Car lot, next door to Disorder News Station, in a hotel with flickering lights and rat crumbs in the corners. Only one more sock to go before our beloved clay model was prepared, with salt and vinegar, and tomato sauce. Delicious. Ding, she is ready.
O with ever slow speed she creeps towards me with a distant look in her eyes. This mustn’t be her first time. First time here, or first time being cooked and prepared for me? Who knows? Oh, right, she does. Crawling onto my belly, which is held in, for optimal appeal, you see. I think she may be ready to die. Ready to destroy herself, just as I am. Naked on the bed, I am ready to fuse with my mate, cast off my Identity as Chip the Virgin lad, the whole, the individual. I am salted and lathered with sauce as I prepare to become two, experienced, the adult male with his identity as a normal adult male completed. This town needs me to be Chip the Virgin lad no more. Everyone can sense great turmoil hidden deep in my crotch regions, ever turgid, ever conspicuous. Yes, oh yes, she is ready for me to destroy her. Murder this nameless prostitute in a philosophical way. Steal her body, pierce that soft region and rob her of her fluids. I’ll do it, on this hard mattress with too little blanket covering.
I grab her and throw her off of me. The meat is scared and passive now, ready to be stabbed with my phallus. You can almost see eagerness in those downcast eyes of hers. Perhaps we’re all masochists.
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