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Sometimes sobriety stops feeling like a pain in the ass. Just sometimes.
I don’t even have to imagine a gal in his place — it’s enough to just remember how we started making out in the middle of discussing Goffman’s social theory and he reached into my pants.
«And even now we’re hostages of society, only the rules change, the roles we have to fit…»
I clenched his fried hair in my fist while my piston became a hostage to his fingers and mouth. Blood rushes to my cock as soon as the relentless stream of words gives way to smacking sounds, and I catch myself no longer able to think. It’s like he’s sucking every thought out of me through my dick, like a needle drawing liquid into a syringe. I’m already starting to feel like I’m about to come when the bastard stops.
«Fuck,» I groan in disappointment and yank his hair, «Wallace, you bitch.»
And his fucking face looks so pleased. He ruins the whole high and laughs at me, the fucking sadist, always grinning like I’m telling jokes here instead of lying there with my cock out and ready. But after a couple of agonizing seconds, he gets back to work. I start feeling good again, my cock begins to throb, almost there… And then the cold stings my saliva-damp skin again and I want to sob.
Wallace does this a few more times until I’m cursing his entire family and thrusting my hips into his mouth myself. When I finally come, my head spins and my vision darkens; I think about how good it is that my dick is still attached and working.
While I’m riding the high, he slips out from under the blanket and quickly kisses me on the lips; my mouth turns sour and bitter.
«You’re indirectly kissing your own dick right now,» he whispers centimeters from my face.
At first, all I can manage is a nervous chuckle. Of course, I’ve had thoughts about sucking myself off before, but they always ended in pathetic attempts where I bent in different directions with the grace of a sack of shit but never managed to reach my dick. But Sickboy could, and I regretted ever sharing that it's a thing.
«Ugh, fuck, Charred!» I push him away and wipe my lips with my palm.
While I do that, he sticks his hand in his own damn mouth. Charred loves putting all sorts of shit in his mouth, and I don’t mean questionable-quality food or dicks — I mean he uses his mouth as storage for small crap he doesn’t want to carry in his hands. He takes a bright red, slightly curled pubic hair off his tongue and places it on my chest. While Wallace is cracking up, I grab a pillow and hit him with all the strength I have left, just so he doesn’t get too cocky, cover that smug face with it and press down harder. The laughter drowns in the fabric, and he grabs my wrists and instead of fighting back like a normal person, pushes my hands deeper into the pillow. The bastard hopes to escape to to a "better place" again, and I involuntarily think that I could kill him. Charred is always chasing after death, and death keeps running away from him, and right now I could put an end to that chase. But then I suddenly feel cheated, as if I’ve been outplayed, and realize I can’t be bothered dealing with the consequences of his fucked-up ideas. No matter how good and caring everyone thinks Wallace is, I know he’s a petty egoist, and people are just too blind to see it. I let go of the pillow and look at him again.
«Hey, sexy,» he’s angling for more.
Restraining myself, I drop the pillow and fall back onto the mattress. Wallace leans over me, takes a cigarette from the nightstand, lights it, and brings it to my lips, still holding it between two fingers. I take it as an apology, take a drag, feeling his other hand slip under my head and lazily stroke my temple. I feel myself fading out again as Wallace also takes a drag and returns the cigarette to me, pressing his cheek against the top of my head. A warm, muscle-melting wave rolls through my body.
«So, I was thinking…»
«Uh-huh…» I exhale smoke, and the cigarette returns to him.
«Thatcher carries that bag everywhere, right? A real tough box-like type of shit, and I’m thinking about the context, how she drags it around, how everyone shits their pants over it. And it feels to me like that bag replaces a dick for her. A kind of public fetish, a sexist statement that a woman in power definitely needs a dick — if not between her legs, then at least in her hands.»
I don’t want to think anymore, but the image of a dick-bag and Thatcher’s lopsided, asymmetrical mug won’t leave my head.
«And with that very handbag, she performs an act of political copulation with her opponents?» I toss in.
«Yeahyeahyeahyeah, like, symbolically castrates them with her phallus and ‘fertilizes’ our wonderful country with awesome political ideas.»
I can’t hold back and start quietly laughing; we spend another ten minutes wishing the old hag an early menopause and impotence for her dick-bag, and then hoping someone with a thicker phallus comes along and shoves it down her throat. Then Charred keeps yapping in my ear, but I’m ready to pass out, so I stop paying attention, and right before I fade away, I feel him squeeze me like a rubber doll, kiss my eyelids and eyebrow until I fall asleep.