Why, Thank You

As the rain gently falls from just beyond my window pane, simultaneously quenching defecated soils and spritzing my melancholy, I am drawn to the words that once passed your voluptuous lips – rouge ablaze with incandescent feeling.

“Go fuck yourself”, you intoned.

Many was the night when I sat in my chambers, accompanied only by the memory of better times and the hiss of food-grade carbon dioxide rapidly dissipating in my officially-licensed tumbler, recalling in particular the affection you once held for me.

Dangerous character flaws became mere idiosyncrasies when pressed against your intoxicating bosom; the lathered and inevitably leathered maniac within thus appeased and adorned in a sequinned strait-jacket, grateful for such an opportunity.

Fragments of this life became an illustrious, enriched and meaningful whole – a previous loneliness now banished to the same void occupied by such misgivings as heterosexuality and merchant-banking, and not one moment too soon.

As I walk along the pavement that once acquiesced to the potent throng of your Italian loafers, the mild humidity in the air gently stimulates my pre-chapped lips, recalling an aeon when we strode side-by-side as leviathans of romance and symbiotic empathy; pale light now furnishing a previous utopia as the sound of passing traffic intermingles with a crisp breeze, escorting leaves and detritus on its bitter wings to a void just beyond my 32-Bit draw-distance.

Several stairs greet me as my journey nears its culmination – I clasp the steel railing as I ascend, recalling in vivid detail the evenings when we shared budget, nondescript takeout and mineral turpentine spritzed with strawberry-husks; my eager hands now grappling, reaching desperately for the serrated edge of my dinner-knife to provide a juxtaposition to the searing, and yet nimble pleasure of your spontaneous multi-digital penetration.

My door materialises before me as the gateway to solitude, and as it closes I am suddenly alone in a sea of darkness and relative silence – the mouths, rectums and poor-attitudes I have encountered across many hours and rostered-duties now at bay.

Morality and indeed decency are now banished to the moist-hell occupied by Reality-TV dropouts and evolutionary hopes pertaining to these crimes.

Emotional rescue now within sight, my satchel takes flight into a dark corner – instantly forgotten, its contents now as redundant as the peculiar discolouration on the right-corner of my upper lip, the epicentre of your violent crescendos and my proudest battle-scar.

My chamber now illuminated by the deft flick of a switch, scissors now appear in my weary hand. The blades meet and do their bidding precisely 34 times; my nudity now as real as my general disdain for bathing and the subsequent crust beneath my foreskin. A crust you once dined upon.

Sporting nipples stiffening forcefully abreast the resounding cool of both the ambiance and social-isolation, my sick mind now pulsates with the recollection of a blueprint for the evening and the reality is made flesh as I pirouette from the rags now shorn from my meat towards your portrait, hanging sensually above my Cathode Ray Tube (CRT) televisual-receptacle.

Our eyes meet as I reach for the first device in my sex-armoury – a formerly innocuous fluorescent-cylinder now bound in an amalgamation of crazy-glue and glass shards for the promise of pleasure that is not as much ribbed as it is barbed.

Your crystalline-gaze galvanises my desire, hence I now recline in my Scandinavian bucket-seat with bespoke battering-device twitching between my unsavoury fingers and leather soothing my aching want.

Canola oil is now as rare a commodity as human-decency in this house if ill-repute, thus I am obligated to lubricate the menacing shaft with my own mouth-juice prior to feeding it 3 inches per-second into my rabidly protesting rectum, expanding beyond its wildest anatomical dreams to accommodate this gift.

My legs now perpendicular to the moonlight snaking through my Venetian-Blinds, a symphony of anal torture now penetrates the silence – a rhythmic symphony akin to that of a child splashing through puddles on an Autumn afternoon.

The child we aborted. The child whom later garnished our Mojitos without detracting from the cocktail-umbrellas.

I tongue the roof of my foaming mouth as haemoglobin pools in the most fashionable shades of crimson in and around my twitching thighs, my wrist now a masterclass of oscillating-precision and the walls of my anus now freshly minced and yet not-for-resale even at a severe discount.

And yet, in spite of the erotic-Zen, something is amiss.

Legs formerly thrust at the disapproving sky now return to the earth that shunned them as I arise from the hotbed of plasma and mucus with baton still lodged firmly inside me (as many men have attempted and yet very few have survived), and I now find a rusted razor-blade between my thumb and forefinger.

Both areolas are dispatched with the diligence and elegance of Samurai. Two lemon-wedges press against the bleeding nubs as a sexual-renaissance begins anew.

A rare sting now characterises the crests of my bosom as I thrust methodically against the rug much like a pre-pubescent would pogo to the local roller-rink.

Like the rink I first met you at in 1991, which coincidentally housed the washrooms in which I tasted your AIDS for the first of many times.

And yet something is still amiss.

A discarded car-battery now enters the fray as I fashion conduits from alfoil and splay my rabid tongue between the positive and negative offshoots, my face now rippling with purpose as I continue to bask in the simultaneous raw erogenous-bliss of my forfeited colon and weeping chest.

And yet something is still amiss.

A bamboo skewer now enters my urethra tip-first, inducing an additional skerrick of rapture; minute splinters accumulate in the walls with each prod as bizarre fluids seep from the hilt, finally propelling me towards the inseminated fields I have lusted for, but which have remained cruelly out-of-reach for so long.

And yet something is STILL amiss.

The ‘last roll of the dice’ is now upon me, however I have prepared for such an eventuality.

Caked in blood and bile, and with each orifice at the very least bleeding and possibly occupied by majestic objects I now march boldly towards an amateur-guillotine comprised of 5 pulleys, fibre-wire and a brick to power it – a loving smile broadening on my cracked lips.

The device is triggered with a spin-kick and little fanfare, thusly my delighted head detaches from my reddened neck and smashes against the French-Marble, resting finally beneath your portrait.

Our eyes meet once more.

Your move.