My Old Friend and The Circus

Author's 2023: I published this story on an old account that I deleted. I'm uploading some old stories here.

Author's Note: This was originally written as a poem. It's gonna read like a poem. If you don't like poems, I'd pack it up and move on.

You're doing your best one-handed handstand trying to fuck the girl with jerky breath because you're mad at me. Stressing your tense muscles all for that glorious scene of me waltzing into your room, stopping dead in my tracks, and staring at a cold, limp condom lying in your trash. More recent than your last sneeze. The handstand is working, she's giggling into a disgusting handkerchief. Diastema peeking above the embroidered flowers and she is cute as a button besides the breath, besides the hanky.

Fuck Jerky Breath. Fuck her and fuck her and fuck her until you're both sore and sweaty and too tangled to politely ask her to leave. Jam your cock into her soft spots until she coos a blurry version of your name that isn't quite right.

When you're gross and slouching afterward, slathering Icy Hot on those popping parts of yourself that don't stretch like they once did. She'll wonder, 'just how old is he?' as you hobble back with your dick wet and limp. Climbing on top of her to whisper sweet things as she spreads her thighs and keeps you warm while you kiss her chin and try to come back to life, like you once could. Just like that. It takes a little longer now, doesn't it?

It'll pass, it always does. When you lap at her clit with your pointy tongue, when you curl up next to her, her fat thigh pressed against your hip and you know better, old man, than to tell her the things about her that drive you crazy. So you make up a list of things that women like to hear and you recite those, warm against her ear. You don't tell the truth anymore, except with me. Because it's mean to say you love ugly people. How many women did you make cry before you learned that? It was too many.

You love their ugly pug noses and their beady little eyes. Their fuzzy hair, half braided like they were never taught what a comb was or maybe their father covered all the mirrors, and you've never been able to turn down a roll of fat dissected by a spaghetti strap. I was the only girl who didn't cry when you told me the truth.

The first time you told me the truth you waited until the train was rumbling through trees and muddy banks. I asked you why you'd say a thing like that though I never stopped smiling. 'Because', you said, 'there's nowhere to go but under the train.'

We drank whiskey out of coffee mugs on the Trans-Siberian Railway, our voices and drinks shaking as we went. Neither one of us could figure out if we were playing Gin Rummy or Gin or Rummy so we started calling it Gin Gin and Rummy Rummy, interchangeably. Because we were sloppy drunk. And twenty. In the circus. And very sure we were about to get laid.

My silver strand of hair, gray and never changing, is a birthmark. It hangs down in my face. You wrapped it around your finger and tucked it behind my ear and said, "beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, but do you want to know the truth?"

A fault of mine is that I always want to know the truth. "Your knotted shoulders make you look like you're about to sprout two more heads. Cerberus. When I saw you from behind I expected Quasimodo, but instead, I saw you and you're so beautiful. You are damn fine for a hellhound." And you howled and so did I. Like a hellhound. Both of us laughed as we zipped past cities with names that sounded like hums.

Once we kissed, an awkward little number with you daring and me staring out the window. It was a half-kiss. Awful. So you reached up, spread your fingers on either side of my neck where you could feel my pulse, and pulled me in. We kept kissing until we were horizontal. Until gravity took over. Until my bra was so impossible to find and my panties were dangling off a toe and then dropping to the floor and you between my legs pressing all your weight against me. We called each other Cerberus and Quasimodo. We took turns being the beast.

I'd never seen a dick before yours. You'd stand in my doorway, that 'You're not funny' expression on my face as I giggled when you were limp and walking around. It was worm-like. What did you want from me? I'd never had anyone slide all the way down my throat, you thought that was funny: a sword swallower who had never swallowed a sword. Your balls felt unreal, not of the human body, as my fingers prodded them. Figuring all of it out. You remind me through a wince, 'Baby, those are attached.'

Take her home, old friend. Let your bony fingers roll over her fat hips as she rides you till an indecent hour, her tits (too big, porny and milk white) like porch lights in the dark when the train shoots by a small town where a security guard who'd been driving to work was stopped, he was cursing the trains unhurried speed -- he was late for work. He saw them. Shook his head. Saw them again. All of it happening so fast that his only response was to look around him, from side to side, at the dark abandoned street where the Railroad Crossing Sign was reflecting the red beam of the flickering warning light until it stopped and everything went dark. 'Tits,' he mouthed to himself, he couldn't think of anything else to say. Get to it, Old Friend, fuck her. You have already given the majority of your indecent hours to me. Laughing, breathing fire whiskey out on long nights and panting into one another's faces and yelling and angry fucking and bandaging knees and stealing granola and wine from the kitchen and all those indecent times at indecent hours are mine. They're all mine. You can't have them back by giving a few of them away.

I'll see you in the morning.