Spill
It’s gonna spill, that’s for damn sure; you just don’t know where. The organ performs a basic task. Sometimes it shoots, rather impressively, onto, say, the bedroom wall or a waiting pair of breasts or the back of a toilet. Not like the other organ, with its blood and acidic lubricant; with its capacity for entry and egress. Seepage supplanting spillage. How did you come to revere this other thing, this mess, this quim?
The mouth is a filthy hole, of course: an asshole in reverse; a slightly different collection of microbial flora—split a lip and you need a shot to protect you from yourself. May as well tongue an anus. But mouths are everywhere; the other organs are not.
“Are you surprised I’m the one who peed on her?” the enigmatic girl asks.
You choke on your smoke. Urine is sterile though: less dangerous than blood and saliva and semen and shit. Piss on a wound if there’s no clean water available. Peepee girls. Pissy pussies. You wonder, is it an evolutionary category-error that we piss, more or less, through our genitals?
“Well, yes, I suppose. A little. You seem so… reserved.”
And she is. Laconic. Indifferent. Still waters. Running waters. The stream interrupted slightly by her labia, little rivulets running down her legs perhaps, the main flow splattering the recipient’s breasts. That unmistakable psssssssssss. Must smell like piss, but then again most pussies smell a little pissy sometimes. Not unpleasant really, pissy pussies are.
“I’m like that around people I don’t know well.”
“And this is a regular thing for you?”
“A boyfriend introduced it to me and now it’s part of my repertoire.”
You wonder what else is.
Nova introduces you to another friend. “These are my lovers, Leslie and Aleks,” she says brightly. She places her hands on you, on Leslie, sometimes grabbing your ass or grazing the twitch in your pants. Refreshingly, she has nothing to hide. The friend plays a set. You laugh. You smile. You bid all farewell and take your girls home.
It’s gonna spill, that’s for damn sure; you just don’t know where. The girls had their turns. You delight in the merger of the everyday mouth with an organ that is mostly forced to hide in shame. The tongue writhes, dances. There’s a factory in there—noisily churning, slurping, producing pleasure—but she’s just toying with you. You know she can finish you if she wants.
“Do you want me to keep going?” Nova asks.
Ohgodyes. Now she’s serious, mouth chasing the tight seal of her wet hand, heavy breasts grazing your thighs. Try to kiss Leslie but lose motor control as everything goes out of focus. In her mouth? No. Couldn’t be. You breathlessly announce the event, giving her one last chance to get out of harm’s way, but Nova’s lips clamp on with firm resolve as you spill into her mouth, pumping in enough calories to power her body for a couple of minutes. You writhe as she milks you until your pleasure centers are overtaxed.
She swallows your spill. You find this delightfully intimate.
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