SEVERAL ROPES WERE STRUNG BY A MAP OF THE WORLD AT THE FOOT OF HIS BED

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Several ropes, Christmas lights colored shining were strung. Happily hanging, hung beside paintings and posters, a dresser and dormitory bunk bed. He laughing moves, touches arm in multicolored almost dark, you smiling, wrap small fingers between his not-so-big hands. Going well, how you wanted, how you hoped. Cautious optimism when you laugh back, counterattack him with rolling hug. He, moving bed covers rustle, an almost-fluid shifting motion. Unsuspecting touch of stubbled cheek to yours. Progressing faster than you planned it, realizes you. But dimdark glow of rope lights strung play color spots on his bookshelf, near map of the world at the foot of his bed. You feel fine.

“After my father died, there was an accident, some sort of mistake. I saw twenty five million years into the future.” He smiling whispers, his face pressed in your neck.

You, laugh. He, not-so-big hands pull you closer, moving skinny bony body towards his. He, touching soft white back of the neck skin with the tips of fingers, tracing lazy slow. You sighing smile, content.

“It was like a dream. The whole world was covered with people, men with no arms and legs, no eyes or ears, no nose, no mouth. Every surface was strewn with them, packed tightly together. They bobbed in packs, shoved so many on top of each other that even in the ocean they did not sink.” He speaking laughs.

Silent still tension moment happening, over quickly. His face before you moves closer, slightly chapped lips press against yours. He rolling over now, you hugging straddle him, laying on top of not-so broad chest. He pulls wool blanket over your legs, you smile back.

“The men were thrashing, though I don’t think they were in pain, I’m not sure that’s something they were capable of” he calm says. “It was a raw, autonomous reaction of the body. It was as a sunflower, moving from east to west, petals tracking the sun.”

Christmas lights dance in his eyes, he shy looks away. You pull his chin back towards you with thin small fingers and lean in, kissing. You ease out, say:

“I’m doing all of this for penance. When my nose itches, I don’t scratch it. I see the world deterministically, I see bodies moving down predetermined paths with ever-greater inertia, I see your body in thirty-five minutes moving against mine with ever greater inertia, thrusting into me shallow, rapid, pathetic prideful, the magnum condom pointlessly large, extra latex hanging sticky with cum, a flag for unearned bravado draped half-staff from a dick going limp, finished already, you leaning your sweaty body against my warm ribcage, head resting painfully on my small breasts. And though I feel warm to you and you can feel the vibrations of a heartbeat against your sweaty nest of hair, it is false. I am as a cold blackness against you, I am as the space between breaths on the last miles of a January morning run, I am as the peeling proud parent of an honor student bumper sticker on an SUV in a ditch, blood leaking out the passenger’s side. When I touch you and whisper ‘That was great,’ I am ten thousand buzzards, I am our desert sprawling across the continents of us. I am where you die.”

You with soft voice, he pulling in tighter, you together smiling. His hand falls to the small of your back, traces down across your ass, fingers moving across the back of your legs. He moving bony hips against you, he breathe throaty heavy, he bury face between quick risingfalling breasts. He is ten thousand faceless men crashing against the desert of your body, so tightly packed they do not sink even in a sea of thrashing sunflowers tracking several ropes of Christmas light strung by a map of the world at the foot of his bed.

 

The Author

Bryce Christopherson is an average quality robot from Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  You can follow him on twitter at www.twitter.com/brycechristoph

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