Sunday, October 4, 2009

Rising Action or Modest Ecstasy

“Modest Ecstasy” or “Rising Action”

I groaned in modest ecstasy as I ejaculated into her cunt, taking in all that sex has to offer. She leaned in and whispered “I can feel it”, apparently in an attempt at being seductive but instead coming off as amateurish. I finished and lurched off of her, laying next to her naked, vulnerable-oh my god!-it was our first time. Not mine, but hers, as well as our first time together. She was panting heavily, not used to the positions and required stamina of fucking. I looked at the clock. 10:52 p.m. It was December 20th, 2009, and in an hour and eight minutes we might die. We probably would. I wanted to waste no time at all for my last 68 minutes-FUCK 67!-but I was as sore and exhausted as I should have been after sex as good as that. She reached for her shirt and I watched her cast a glance my way and smile sweetly as she slipped the t-shirt over her beautiful upper body. The shirt was handmade, she’d silk printed it, and had a picture of Jim Morrison wearing aviator sunglasses with the worlds “But the end is always near” emblazoned beneath. I regretted not getting those tattoos I wanted in high school. I had it all planned out: on the left arm in “typewriter” font it would read “the future’s uncertain” and on the right, “but the end is always near” from Roadhouse Blues. The actual lyric is of course “and the end..” ect. but I added “but”-fuck, it doesn’t even matter now im dying in 63 minutes id been thinking silently a long time, I never thought i’d fear death but I am, I just laid this beautiful girl and now I’d die with her except-shh, i can hear her speaking!

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We’d been going four months without sex, she wasn’t ready “Ok, I respect that”) and we’d crossed the love barrier long ago but christ, I thought of the shirt that now draped across her otherwise naked body (except the small peace sign around her neck and the tattoo of a slice of cake on her left ankle she’d had since I met her that was practically part of her body but a decoration nonetheless). She’d made the shirt after I Told her of the tattoo and I’ve never seen a fucking better shirt in my life to this day. I softly stroked the tender skin inside her upper thigh, working my hand up her shirt and across her small firm breasts and back down. She let out a pleased moan, and reached for her glasses. I saw the red numbers of the clock reflecting partially in the glasses, their haunting glow the only light in the room except for the pink and blue lava lamps shoved in the corner. I could make out the first three numbers as 11:0 but the last was blurred from a small scratch on the lower right corner of the lens from a soccer game we had organized among the patients on the main stretch of grass. How could I express to her how scared I felt looking into her shining eyes knowing it could be 11:01 OR 11:09, a difference of 8 minutes in the last hour of the life? No matter. I watched as she got down from the top bunk and went to the sink washing her hands as she often liked to do.

“You know not all of them have these. I love that you have a sink!”

I could see her ass bouncing slightly as she soaped between her fingers whistling “Frank Sinatra” by her favorite band and I laid back into bed to ponder my inevitable destruction. I didn’t want to call anyone, not my parents, not my best friend Rob in Arizona who for all I knew might have been having oblivious doomsday sex with his own girlfriend Ivy, not even realizing the death he would experience, I didnt want to call my roommate to see when he might be getting home, perhaps tonight but hoped not but SHIT I CANT SEE THE CLOCK and I whipped around and saw 11:11. I wasn’t immature enough to consider making a wish on that. Shit, what was the missing digit before? It didn't matter. This hour is going by too fast no matter what the clock reads. When you're going to die, time always goes too fucking fast. Now she was climbing back up the ladder, shirt now gone again and smirked at me mischievously as she peeled back the sheets covering my torso and began kissing my legs then scrotum then shaft, fitting her lips around the tip. I ran my hand through her hair and cooed “no, love, we both deserve some pleasure” and felt her giggle and heave across my body, crawling up my skin until i could feel her bush against my groin and once again entered her, this time upwards. I started slowly. I wanted to make it last. Then the red glow of the clock flickered out and the lava lamps in the corner shut down and I cursed the Mayan expert decoders who had miscalculated the day by a half hour and pressed into her hard almost too hard and frantically gyrated my hips and she began to moan and wheeze but happily and i tried to yell “I love you!” but only managed “you” and felt the ground shake and the bed convulse in a downward spiral and heard her scream “Ohhhh” and I let my jissom erupt into her and knew the timing was beautiful and wondered if I’d ever be able to write about the end of the world in Hell and knew I would regardless of if the pens in Hell had ink or not.

Notes: This is a work of fiction. This is not a story of logic. It is a story of passion in the face of fear. Not a terribly well written one, but one nonetheless. The insane narrator doesn’t know how else to cope with the madness of facing his own death except for by imagining how he might write it as a book. There is no life after death. He is not writing this in Heaven, or in Hell. He is writing this in his mind only, unable to process the reality of his situation otherwise.

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