1:03AM
It’s around 1AM. Paul’s door is unlocked. French doors to his bedroom left ajar. TV light spills over his body, maybe the soft glow of a bedside lamp as well. Sounds of a fuck movie, volume down low. Paul works his dick through longjohns, hands play a combo, one squeezes, the other flexes, head presses into cupped palm. Waistband drops beneath the heft of summer balls—fuck—man so fucking beautiful it smells. I note the changes to his face, body, how his belly goes taut as his chest heaves as he handles himself, his size, god his fucking SIZE slaps repeatedly into his hand, smacks his abs (he knows), spits, makes it slick, shifts his grip and rhythm. The booty vid no longer interests, his own movie unreels, vulva unwraps, quivers, burrows his lips and tongue, tongues, head thrown back, hips lunge, plow into fists, feet own the floor, back arches, whole body clenches, clenches, tongue reaches further, reaches (fuck—how can he stay so quiet?) then, slo-mo like the movies, body buckles, ruptures, flies, it flies and flies in streams, splashes, hits the wall. He rolls, coughs. Coughs again. Looks around (for what? smokes? something to wipe up?), my eyes still on his cock still pulses, softens, still heavy. Still. He lights up. Full breath. Exhales. Smoke rises. Looks up at the ceiling. Rubs his nostrils. Wipes his comforter. Glances at the doors. Wonders if I’ve left. I place a couple twenties and some hash on his coffee table. He’s cool, knows I can’t afford much. Tomorrow night we’ll smoke up, play cards, listen to vinyl, joke and bitch about not gettin’ any.
JEFF KIRBY, originally from my chapbook, The World is Fucked and Sometimes Beautiful, 1995.
