—I could fucking kill him,
and part of me wants to round the corner and say, what is it, exactly, that makes me what she says I am? She’s the one who said it just wasn’t working out, and left an envelope in my locker stuffed with little trinkets I bought her. And then some weeks later, yes, I’m with another girl, instead of, what, begging for her to come back outside her window playing some song? Guy I am, OK, but fucking asshole guy I am not. But really I’m not thinking all this. Really when she says I could fucking kill him I can hear her voice a couple months back, fresh from orgasm on her dad’s living room floor, and my mouth sticky and happy, her exhausted grin at me like a warm breeze, her legs bent out lazy just like I know they are sitting with her friend this second right now. You’re killing me is what she said.
Some nights it’s forgotten for a bit. A big dinner heavy in my belly maybe, reading for Modern Lit draws me in, or a test worrying me enough that I stay downstairs at the table, dad at the other end shuffling folders around from work. Quiet, my mom on the phone with her feet up, laundry piled in a basket to be folded. Or homework’s done and gone, stretched out looking together at the same show, the big screen flicking at our eyes, laughing at something the famous guy says, night outside, streetlamps on the sidewalk with their nothing to see here. Everyone’s phones silent, leaning on the pillows on the sofa like it will never hit. And then it could be the pillow, some small rub above the knee, a friction with something against something against me. Some girl in the show, some joke that zips it alive. I can blink it away for maybe thirty seconds tops, five minutes if I’m being talked at. Afraid to make a display, standing up and stretching, slow and fake when I’m already bounding upstairs in my head. And then I am bounding upstairs, my eyes full of flesh already, so it’s like I don’t even know if the screen’s actually alive with it yet. Like a creature uncoiling from an egg, half-awake and all-hungry, the tug like an outboard motor sputtering me into the lake of sex, the family downstairs like a bear trap on my leg, as I’m excited alive and moving and very, very wanting to fuck.
Lately my favorites have the shittiest music, why is that, so I mute the stuff they give me and soundtrack it myself. It’s all worked out, I move automatic to get ready. The links are hid in a place marked boring, although no one will check my computer. It only had to happen once, a quick shrieking hey! when I was fourteen, for my mother to now always always knock and wait for me, flinging on my loosest pants if I need to, answering and for her never to say anything like you look a little flushed, honey or what’s wrong you’re out of breath or if I didn’t know better I’d say you were pretty close to about to come before I knocked and spoiled it for a little just to ask if you would have some popcorn if I made some. Nonetheless I tip my backpack sideways in front of the door so if it’s opened there will be a little time-buying distraction crash. Cole, why do you always leave your bag where anyone could trip on it, is it because you have a setup you do whenever you need to get yourself off? Music sounds more harmless anyway, to anyone pausing outside my door, than the shuffling and nothing when I listen to the moans and dirty talk and fuck-me-harder screams through headphones on with the cord running down my bare chest against my slightly desperate beat-beating heart. Thump thump let’s go on an adventure, Cole. It’s nine P.M., let’s watch something.
The best song for it recently is Hello Girls, it’s by the guy, everybody knows the one, who used to be in that other thing, a party song quiet at the edges, a little lonely and of course horny, which is where I’m at. It’s not a problem, which is how so many people—clergy onscreen, clingy adults—worry at it. It’s not interfering or taking anything else over. It’s separate from the rest of the hustle-bustle boredom that is everywhere from wake up you’ll miss the bus to close your eyes it’s a school night. It’s like a bathroom to excuse yourself to, a corner of the house I’m stuck in, a train stop for my brain, it’s just a box I need to get into by myself unless, you know, you’re someone who will take my hand and lead me out of here to a better offer. Otherwise, of course, I will boot this up and watch the screens of it happening. Tap on the keys and the floodgates open bright and wet. Hello, girls. Hello, the clothing ripped off, the mouths kissing at it like they’re trying to swallow an apple whole, the girl fierce and moaning all thirsty or, just as hot, nervous and unsure as the man, undeniable and strong, unzipping already, moves to push her down. It is not real. Nothing to do with it. What it is, what is obvious, is fucking hot. Try blonde, redhead, curly brown hair, a braid or a wig, white girls pale or freckly, every shade of black girl, hello Asian, Latina or maybe just tan, try a girl with so much makeup you can’t tell what her skin is like, try someone with a big ass climbing up on the hideous sofa to ask for it. Try two girls with their toy cocks rolling over the bed. Try the man holding her ears so he can fuck her mouth, or is it too violent, just try it and see. I rub myself over my pants until they’re off, inside out with the socks lagging out of the cuffs, or I will end up naked with only socks on my feet like an idiot. Try the girl on all fours, try the man turned over, try two men holding the girl’s legs open so the third can be satisfied. Fake wives, fake lovers, fake babysitters, fake sluts actually fucking. Try it all, the screen offers. My cock a tent in my boxers, finally naked when one angle, one scene, one girl is the signal that it’s time to go for broke. Strip off the last of it and I am as nude and excited as the day I was born. Try me, looking at my own cock trembling thick, almost a shame to touch it, an impossible move not to. This is the night in my room, and if it sounds dangerous, if you have decided it’s sleazy, let me tell you it is a goddamn joy, the relentless wide-open seething tussle of all these girls helping me get off, as much as I want, as loud as I dare, free and wild and hard and happy in the juice and the dirt, until like the universe it’s over with a bang and a whimper, and I close down every scene still thumping from it, the flesh looking sillier with each passing second, boxers thrown on for emergencies, rolling back my toes unclenching and the sock or the tissue or just my hand and belly sticky with the ending, eyes closed or on the ceiling with a grin or a grimace trying to gauge if I want, if I need it more, before I turn in and sleep it off, the song on its maybe third repeat. Hello, girls.