Supererogatory Primogeniture

A shiny, dotted, wet piece of sandpaper-coated muscle soars through the air. It soars with urgency. It soars with passion. With intent. With haste. Horniness. Pride. Confidence. Ambition.

Like a spear, it soars. Like an arrow, it soars. Like (any projectile soaring straight that you can think of), it soars.

And it soars so fast. Like nascars. Like that spear. Like that arrow. But all fastforwarded. 32X speed.

It collides with another muscle. Like two towels, they collide. Like two balloons, they collide. But not totally like them. These two muscles, they smush together. Their shiny dots of wetness eject, and project, and soar until they collide. This collision splashes. It creates bigger globs of wetness. And that wetness rains down on two muscles. Two muscles that are now locked in the ultimate wrestling match.

One muscle twists and turns and wraps and crawls and drags across the other, as the other does the same thing, but delayed by one second, so they form a twisty thing.

Like they both got an A+ in gymnastics, these muscles unwind and perform the ultimate moves. Aerial. Check. Front hip pullover. Check. Front pike somersault. Check. Somi-and a-half. Check. Sticking. Check. Straddle. Check. Straddle split. Check. Swedish fall. Check. Check. Yurchenko. Now they’ve gone too far.

One muscle pulls back. It’s panting. It’s dripping saliva. Right down to a row of teeth. The teeth are white. They were just brushed. They were just flossed. But a piece of beef is still lodged between the back molars. So the tongue digs into those teeth. But the smooth, fat, sort of oval-shaped tongue cannot pry the beef out. The beef says, “Forget me, get back to business.”

And the tongue does. It retracts. It pulls way, way back. It greets the tonsils. The hanging thing, if that’s what it is really called. It greets that thing. It says, “Hello, I’m only here for one second, but I wanted to say hello.”

And it releases! It soars. It’s an arrow again. It’s a spear again. And it slams into the other muscle for a second time. And now it’s a torrential downpour of saliva. That’s how intense this meeting has gotten. The mouths suck shut, creating a vacuum. A tropical environment, because it has gotten so steamy. It is very moist. Damp. Hot. Bothered. Muggy. Dewy.

But the tongues continue to wrestle. Fatigued, but more passionate than ever, they don’t stop. They don’t even attempt a breather. They just slide against each other, dissolving the saliva until none remains. Grinding now. Dragging sandpaper. Turning bright red. Flesh peels. Blood seeps. But just drops. Not intense blood. Just enough to make this official. Shading the moment.

Rub. Rub. Rub. Like they’re creating FIRE!

Oh, oh, oh, oh, yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

That’s what both tongues say. And now you can’t even see the muscles because they’ve created a sonic boom with their speed. And they keep going. And they keep going. And they go a bit faster now. And even faster. Rub, rub, rub, rub. 32X speed. 64X speed. Flips. Somersaults. A quadruple salchow and quadruple toe loop.

And now the teeth have joined in. They’re grinding together, hardcore, like those bad kids at school dances. And the tonsil feels left out. It says, “Hey! Stop!” Like the chaperon at the school dance, because they’re mad they can’t get any action. “It was fine when everyone wasn’t getting any, but now everyone is, so cut it out!” the tonsil yells.

And a big wad of saliva is formed. The mouths swallow and that wad slaps the tonsil in the tonsil face. The tonsil, in return, says, “Ah, that was good.”

Now everyone is involved. Like a huge Orgy. But not that kind of orgy. I mean Orgy the band, because this is classified as Young Adult.

And KABOOM!

That’s how WE were born.

Matthew Hance first began writing in his mother’s womb. He remembers it as clear as amniotic fluid. Placing his tiny foot on one of her ribs and saying, “Swallow a pen and some paper or I’ll break it.” When he popped out, he handed his 150,000 word epic novel Nine Months of Uterusary Confinement to the Doc and told him to start querying. In the past two years, he has had published the novella, Uncurable and short stories, The Grandest Trick and Die in Vogue. His flash fiction piece, Church Lurker, was included in MiCrow’s summer edition ezine, and his novelettes, Tower 5 and CML won 2nd and