I had the house to myself.
Mat and I took drugs and screwed all weekend. Glass pipe packed every hour. Sitting up in the middle of the bed, the doona draped around each of us like swathes of material from a high fashion film shoot.
I'm shagged... literally. We both have sore dicks. Covered in muck, sticky to the touch. Sweating and sighing, exhausted.
Mat played sheep. I played drover.
Mat played catcher. I played pitcher.
Mat's arse can take it longer than I can give it, ain’t that the truth. He likes it face down and on his knees the best. Although I put in a few hours, so I think that is pretty respectable, um, er, delivery, and he was happy with that.
Then we both suck on the glass pipe again. Ah, that acrid smoke, I love it. Mat loves it. You can crave just the taste.
Then we can both lay there pulling ourselves for hours watching porn from the internet, in a second round, also the truth. Glass pipes being what they are.
True of all boys, really.
And by then it is taboo porn, brother on brother, father and son… you can find any sort of deviation on the interwebs.
We’re making up stories, I can run an alternative narrative on any porn, that is what I do, after all. I’m quite the chatterer, as we lay there in the semi dark, towels all around, the sheets drenched with sweat and other fluids. The panel heater pulled into the room and set on high until we both feel we are going to expire.
We’re in our own cocoon, the outside world ceases to exist, and the hours just disappear. What day is it? How long have we been…? I have no idea. It is no longer clear. I love that. I love the drugged-out tear in the space time continuum, that is the best. Life as you know it, no longer exists. Nirvana by pipe. It is fantastically great.
(no wonder it takes the dumb people down. You have to be smart to make it out the other side)
No comments:
Post a Comment