Pocket Dimension Pussy: Part Two
The old woman was gone, likely still frowning. Her disgruntled mumbling faded like a drumbeat in decresendo. I think I want her to fuck me. Engross me in her decrepit folds, the nipple of her distended tit tickling my uvula, me on the precipice of losing the lunch she made me: ambrosia salad and cottage cheese and a glass of warm ginger ale. Her pacemaker a hummingbirds thrum which has her brainstem jackhammering her spine of frail birch.
“You got the bags?” Serious asked, his cross tone told me he’d asked once before while I was trapped in fantasy. From the pockets on my utility belt I pulled handfuls of plastic grocery bags the way a clown pulls scarfs from his throat. Serious recoiled, “fuck, they smell like onions.”
“Sorry, I needed enough to make soup for the week.” The stainless steel pot sat full and untouched in the back of my fridge; glaciating with runoff cool from the freezer. I wasn’t even a big fan of french onion soup but my mom taught me a meditative trick to quiet a ruminating mind and that’s to keep your hands busy. I chopped onions for two hours last Saturday and confused the part of me that knew why I was crying.
“Okay don’t use those bags for anything porous. I’m gonna poke around down here, you check the upstairs.” Serious grabbed a crunch of bags, stuffed them into his pockets, and entered an open door near the thermostat; a baby powder pink bedroom. Its knotty pine surfaces tacky with the memory of fortifying beehive hairdos.
I could see the old lady’s abstracted figure through the glass of the front door, I approached it with the hesitation she must’ve felt seeing the rocky effigys of Serious and myself. My tongue knocked back a glob of anxious mucus sweet with aroma of this mornings coffee creamer. I flicked shut the doors lock, jailing us burglurers in the old woman’s home. She extended a limb solid as smoke and tracing, continued to examine the scuff we made in her front door.
Underfoot each step of the wickerbrown stairs groaned like a death rattle. Leaning over the banister I could see the grey snow that coated the tops of furniture. I hacked throat scratches. There were three doors upstairs, one was open, left of the staircrown; another bedroom. Mauve shadows cast onto olive walls and the place smelled like garland of mildew had been strung. The large bed was indented on the right side with the ghost of a thin body with arms reaching over and holding the unimpressed space.
I felt a disturbance in my groin like my pubic hairs writhed and knelt down next to the bed, allowing the whiskers from my nostrils to investigate the bedsheet. An aroma: bittersweet like tooth decay undid something in my core. I shuddered as I exhaled through my mouth.
“I’m gonna go and make sure you didn’t chip the walnut,” played repititiously behind my closed eyes. I isolated and emphasized the old woman saying, “nut, nut, nut.” The squeak of her sucking saliva off her dentures echoed in my mind. Her thin, quivering pupils taking me in as I stood at her doorstep. She had the disapproving gaze of a perturbed librarian. I choked; an automatic asphyxiation.
Whiplash; throwing my neck over my shoulder for solace. An ensuite bathroom, ovation! I shut the door and reveled in the aching lightbulb buzz.
My skin was glowing fluorescent cream. I fell back into the wall and relaxed, ahead of me was the sink and above that a large mirror that reflected every inch of my crime, all six and a half of them.
He zips down the long stem of his coveralls, removing himself from the sleeves as the zipper reaches his waist. The armpits of his undershirt are dark. A small afro of pubic hair blossoms as he slides his pants down to his knees, revealing the smell of hairy taint unsheltered by underwear; a smell so hot condensation drips down the mirror.
Boy Jones licks his lips as he works his sweaty fist around his soft cock, a tan muscle with the hang of a compass needle resting left of true north. His head rolls on its stem and as his dipstick firms the rest of him loosens in tandem. Like freeing himself from a chinese-fingertrap he tugs and tugs. His heavy breaths pull dust from their surfaces. Boy Jones is tired fast.
Opening drawers and rummaging their contents for lubrication, tossing aside hair curlers and perfumed powders, fluoride toothpaste and bladder control pills. In a large cabinet, burried at the back by the sinks draintail: a pair of dentures and a tube of zinc-free denture cream.
Without hesitation, teeth chattering with excitement, Boy Jones set the dentures on the counter. Squirting a splooge of cream onto his cock and a splooge on the dentures he holds the mouth down, positions his tip to tease the plastic incisors, and fucks the mouth replica.
Eyeing himself in the mirror; fat, hairy stomach recoiling with each thrust, pea-sized nipples erect, underbite flexed like a beast. Fog creeps in from the mirrors edge and his eyes fall back into his skull. With the fading of his reflection so fades his conscience. Not even the knocks from the front door could wake him. Boy Jones, one with his pleasure, is entirely enraptured in the hot gratification that swells at his groin and swallows him the long way.
Downstairs, Serious Williams paws through the antiquated texts on the old woman’s bookshelf and stuffs into plastic bags whatever books seems most leatherbound valuable. His heart falls as he hears the skeletal fist clamoring at the front door and sunk deeper into his fears seeing the doorhandle wriggle.
In each hand Boy Jones takes a cogturning breast and gripping tightly, allows the gears to twist his wrists into a terracotta tornado. Slowly he melts. At his nose is a woman of pure heat, cellophane refracting sunlight for skin and a diamond penumbra for hair. His vision is bruised thigh splotches that crawl like amoeba and proliferate to blind him. Hands reach from the woman’s eyes and hold his head in place, so she can’t lose the best part of him as he drifts away. Her mouth opening sets free a tongue which unfurls into a long carpet that scores his melting flesh; it clings to her tonguemeat like cheese licked off a slice of pizza.
“As I enter you I am only guided by my dowsing rod sensing divination which reverberates deep within your chasms. I hear words in the seductive French tongue underscored by light television static.” Boy Jones says (translated from anastrophized Pig Latin).
Boy Jones further falls into orgy, his skin plumets to Earth as gummy slugs slipping between the woman’s pruned fingers- sick with the smell of copper. Calcium stones rockfall from his eyes. Between the folds of his musculature seeps white, liquid bone.
Despite the complete dissemination of his being, Boy Jones parts her virginal waters with the plummets of oars from a desperate boat. His loose testicles punch each other like boxing gloves on opposing fists.
“I am a conduit.”
At the edges of her sideways mouth emerge the teeth of a paper shredder. Boy Jones howls as, unable to stop thrusting, his dick is ripped to bits of dog food.
But despite the absence of cock, Boy Jones does not stop thrusting, in fact, he thrusts harder and faster to a superhuman degree. A flute of plastic soul emerges where his cock was. A penis of pure energy. Like removing a coat, Boy Jones sheds his muscles and his innards fall from space like comets of meat. All that remains of him now is his brain and a series of nerves that are enclosed in pure blue light; waves of ultraviolet in the silhouette of a man.
His moans of pleasure are belches from a drunken god. His thrusts are seismec activity. The squelches of her wet vagina are stirs into a bowl of cheesy pasta the size of the largest mountain. She holds him by the brain as he pounds her awesome vagina, a meat contraption soft as a thousand mink furs. Taking full advantage of Newton’s third law of motion, the pair rock in an ebbing cradle of ecstacy.
Serious Williams, the old woman’s claw pulling at his ear, apologizes profusely for the contraband stuffed inconsiderately into myriad plastic bags.
“You couldn’t have put my precious linens in something other than cheap, onion-smelling plastic?” She sqwaked.
“It’s not my fault ma’am I wanted to fix your thermostat, but my partner you see, he’s a kleptonymphomaniac! If you’d seen in his eyes what I saw you’d buckle like a car seat.” Serious pleaded. “I’m just happy you were able to get back in before something truly horrible happened.”
“My home is only getting warmer, where is this partner of yours?” Her old arms crossed furrowed eyebrows tight.
Confined in sexual psychosis, unaware of reality, Boy Jones creates loud sex pops that echo in his chamber and moans like whale sonar. Serious and the old woman trade wide-eyes and look to the ceiling above them. Boy Jones knocks dust loose into their upturned faces, fucking so violently he makes fissures in the sky.
“I have exhausted my testicles. Put me to rest, mother.” Boy Jones whispers with brittle intonation.
A sea of eels erupt from the tip of his pellucid energy member. They burst as fireworks in the celestial ovaries of his blind ambition. He is paralyzed in orgasm, the electrical numbing gives his body the visceral feeling he’s lost transmuting himself into a sexual deity. From his brain float wisps of steam as his conscience short-circuits. Chalky goo coats the bathroom walls. The cellophane life expires as the bruise spots on his eyes contract to pinpoints of gossamer. Flashes of hot sun hair are the dying dream. Her diamond penumbra disappears with a kiss on the lips, shrinking to a finite totality of yellow ceiling light. This is when the bangs on the bathroom door become intrusive gavel slaps. Regaining momentum, stumbling back, breath actualizing. A crash of wood.
“What the fuck?!” Serious Williams, my friend, shouted in horror. The old woman, just a step behind him, clutched her pearls and fell back into her bed. Floundering into reality I look around. Semen drips from every surface, there’s a pile of it up to my ankles, on the edge of the sink counter is a bloody set of dentures, closed. In the sinks basin is my flaccid cock. Where my penis once grew from me was now a crimson stump no bigger than an erect nipple.
Unreality. I must have fallen into some alien conscience, a parody of my own. Serious backed up and ran away, his feet skipped down the stairs in heavy thuds. The shellshock ringing in my ears was almost so loud it could be seen. I looked around the bathroom a dozen times, forgetting what I’d seen when it wasn’t right in front of me. My hands clamped down on my bloody nub and I ran from the bathroom, out the bedroom, and turned to head down the stairs. Naked from the waist down, my jumpsuit was only worn on my right leg. In ricochet speed the tangle of fabric shot around and pulled my left foot. I fell down the stairs face first.
Each wood step punched splinters and welts into my body. At the stairtail I was a blood-soaked, dickless nightmare. Before I could groan in pain I coughed up the thick iron clogging my throat. The cancer exited with a hack and like rolling dice three of my teeth shot out like viscous seeds.
“Sir?” My heart was hurting with hasty arrythmia. I could hear the old woman’s heels slowly approaching. Scooping myself up I stumbled out the front door. The sunlight was raw and stung my scars with the bite of salt. “Sir?” The old woman asked again, overpowered by the screams of nearby sidewalkgoers and their feet clopping away fast. I fell into the front gate, Serious had shut it behind him. Slick with blood- my hands fumbled around the opening mechanism.
“Sir?” Like she spoke directly into my ear. I turned around. “Think you bit off more than you can chew?” She smiled, her mouth was stained orange, she reached in her maw and pulled a piece of my dickmeat from between her teeth.