I notice that the stories that get the most love on Cowbird, are the ones that remind us of the wonder of being human. Stories of love and family (especially children), heartache and sacrifice, tales that help us feel better about the mess we’re all in.
I worry that my stories can’t do the same. That my life, so far anyway, leads me elsewhere, somewhere more visceral, perhaps less hopeful, certainly more dirty. And I hesitate to share, like maybe I should keep it to myself. But also, other things happen, there’s not always a moral or a happy accidental result. Sometimes it remains a mess.
So, more of my mess. Don’t read it if you object to sex scenes or oversharing. You can stop at XL or XXL and imagine the rest.
Much later, I stand above him, scissors poised, and I can see he’s spooked and I like that. I undo his belt buckle, and then from the crotch to the waist I cut slowly upwards. Treasure pours out. His belly is splendid. Outlandish. Obscene. It cascades downwards as it is released, spreading over his thighs, between his thighs, over the sofa. As I suspected earlier, it nearly reaches his knees. As it moves, I catch glimpses of mysterious areas between the rolls, unused to the air, to the light, areas with greenish tinges, and an outrageous odor reaches me. His breasts are criss-crossed with marks where the skin’s elasticity has been exhausted. There is a thin line of hair stretching from the fold where his belly button is hidden, and the follicles seem inflamed.
I can’t help myself.
-I have never, I say slowly, with what I hope is the right amount of respect. I have never seen something like that.
-No, he agrees, I’m a pretty rare breed. Lots of fat people around, not many like this though. I should know, my doctor’s always putting me in the tiny top percentile.
Of course, there’s no cock to be seen. And I guess that’s what this is all about. I approach from beneath, sliding my hand further up his legs, pushing his stomach to one side as I explore.
-Please take the rest of your clothes off, he implores, and I oblige quickly, too interested to care much, too keen to see what lies beneath.
Finally, we’re there. It’s a tiny thing of course, comparatively – to his size, to the size of others. But dark and hard, and I wonder if he’s taken something to make it work better. One hand holding his belly aside, with the other I start on his cock, just using my nails at first, building up confidence before I start to use my palm.
As I tickle his balls, and swing his sac around, I see dark, tough skin at the top of his thighs, where years of fungus and rubbing and sweat have conspired to form some leathery substance. I tap it lightly with my nails, and that high-pitched sigh happens again.
-Is that okay? I ask, and I do want to know. I have nothing to measure this experience against.
-It’s great, he mutters, as he swipes at me with his hands. You think we can try to have sex?
-I don’t know, I answer, can you?
-It’s been sometime, but I’d love to try. He collapses, so he’s lying on his back and with both hands sweeps his belly up and presents me with his cock, a stubborn relic whose ambitions have surely outlasted its current circumstances.
But I roll on the condom and lower myself on and it’s all I can do to keep my balance and not laugh as well, so I’m squatting there, moving slowly up and down, watching his body wobble beneath me, and he can’t touch me because he’s got to keep his belly out of the way, and that makes the sex crazier, like he’s feeling himself up, and I start moving faster because I’m not sure how long my legs can take this, and I’m sure he’s on something because his face is bright red, and his eyes bulging, like he’s occupying his own atmosphere where the air pressure is much lower, and he’s straining and even attempting a thrust every now and then, but there’s no explosion, no coming and in the end, it’s just futile, so I slow down and speak.
-I’m sorry, I got to take a break. My legs are killing me.
-Without a pill, he stammers at me, sweating and heaving, I can’t get it up. And with one, I can’t come. I can’t get the required thrust.
He waves around him. At his prone body and the cushions protruding from beneath it. At his left leg which is hanging down to the floor, perhaps placed there with the intention of giving him thrust but which has turned a florid purple, as the blood has pooled around the ankle, lacking the sufficient energy to make it back up again. At his belly and its many colours and textures, or maybe his cock, which I can feel oozing out of me.
For a minute, I think it’s okay, he’s been here before and he’s still able to laugh at it.
Then he nods, and lies back and starts weeping.
-I’m a fucking ruin.
All that self-pity, all that male shit, that I’d expected earlier, and had been so happy not to hear, this is when it comes, and I sit there, holding his hand, stroking his melancholy round smooth face and as soon as it’s polite, I take my money and leave.