I pushed the open apartment door closed. Goodbye, neighbors! Catch you later!
And he fell on my bed, only a few feet away. I followed.
He climbed on me, skin on skin, warm and ready. Too ready. Right away
promotion
I felt a splash against my thigh. I looked down, started to ask, "Was that . . . ah?"
He laughed, he apologized, then I laughed too, and he rolled over me, kissed my neck, ran a hand through my long hair. But it was only a few minutes before another sploosh hit my leg, this time on my hip. Surprised, I had to stop again, and look at him.
He whispered, "Don't worry, don't worry," and rubbed his cock on my thigh. I thought, okay, now we're getting things going on. But within minutes, there it was — the gush, the geyser. Spew hit my elbow. For this man, there was no build-up, no way to hold back and no delay for reloading. He didn't give up. His cock touched my belly, and there was the splash, the sploosh, another pool of splooge. He shot his load like a blind man duck hunting, wildly and at random.
I was a target in some kind of pie-throwing contest, only the pies were more like raw eggs. He couldn't hold his stuff — he tossed come everywhere.
If it's true sperm is good for the skin, I was at a day spa. If it's really packed with antidepressants, the way some doctors say, then this guy was a walking pharmacy. Once a virgin in Brazil died of anaphylactic shock the first time she had sex, allergic to semen. Thank God I didn't have that problem.
I reached for Kleenex to put on the wet spots, then lay back on the bed. When the spewey
If it's true sperm is good for the skin, I was at a day spa.
puddles got heavy around us, we rolled to the other side of the bed. Too soon we had to move again, to the very edge.
Before I was even aroused, we had to move down near the bottom of the bed, the only dry spot left, then over to the floor. And I hadn't even gotten started. It was all him — just shooting, and shooting. He tried to go down on me, but his body crumpled, bent in half, as he let his load fly again. He was a sprinter, a wild hose, a fire extinguisher, and the only fire going out was mine. I couldn't quit counting, quit watching, until I was an observer, not a part of the act. His act. After a while, I got up, left him in his swimming pool, what had been my bed. I went to take a shower.
That might've been the end of our entanglements. He wasn't the man for me. But right away he hooked up with one of my closest friends. There was a night we were all out on the town, drinking big drinks. It was early morning when the three of us crashed out in my bed. It wasn't about sex, it was about sleeping. That's what my friend and I thought, anyway.
I woke up to a familiar sploosh against my thigh. I woke up to a tongue on my clit, a hand on my hip, another splash against my fingers. I reached down, felt his head. Then I sat up fast. I yelled his name. My friend woke up, too. What the fuck?
My friend and I, we have our code of ethics. He was her man, now. And she was right there, in bed, beside us.
Kerouac, Basquiat, Pollack — what this lovely puppy dog of an artist, this sweet over excitable man said was, "I thought she was you! I thought you were her!"
My friend and I, we had to send him packing, to kick him out, together. n°
Monica Drake's fiction has appeared in the Beloit Fiction Review, Threepenny Review, Insomniac Reader and other magazines. She teaches at the Pacific NW College of Art in Portland, Oregon. Clown Girl is her first novel.
