From the Toilet

I’m taking one. I’m taking a good one. It’s been so long since I’ve had a really good one. No, a really really good one.

I don’t have anything to read so I have to write. I have a pen and paper, a notebook that was given to me from some girl once. She liked something I had scrawled on a scrap piece of paper. It was made up and stupid and made no sense, but she loved it.

She liked, likes possibly, really bad poetry and considers herself as one. I’ve read some of hers. It’s bad, very bad. She has some “published” by some conglomerate that puts every mindless piece of writing into a compilation and sells them for a million dollars to the writers in it. The poets. She wasn’t paid. She paid. If she was paid I may start writing poetry, though first I should learn how too. Then again, why waste the time, she obviously can’t and she’s getting paid. Maybe.

I’ll have to first get up from the shitter to do anything and right now the world isn’t looking all that great, so what’s the point. So far I’ve been completely oblivious to any murders or rapes or wars here on the shitter. No the world’s at peace in here sitting on the porcelain bowl, commode, in all its white majesty, turning and curving and screwed here and pushed there. Made in the heat of fire and turned white by exhaustion. No, this is where happiness can be found and all else can be forgotten about.

So I have some paper, so I have some ink, I wish I had a beer. Some alcohol. Something to help this all out.

I could turn on the shower to warm up the room but I’ve already gone through the horrible part of shitting—the initial sitting. The dropping down on the opening and feeling the draft swallow your asshole and balls, causing chills all over your body. Your insides stir and forget why they ever wanted to exit in the first place. It’s warm on the inside. Why would they want to exit where the water is a clear freeze, awakening it to reality? But it’ll have to leave at some point. It’ll all just disappear soon enough, down a hole, down a pipe, down a black underworld where its forgotten about and dispensed into a filtration system where it becomes like everything else and is drugged by the turning and turning of it’s existence till it’s pushed back into another black hole another black pipe and another opening where it lives for another moment and dies again to another drain. The light is so white, but so fleeting all the same.

My dick is back to its normal size. It shrinks and hides when my ass touches the cold. My dick freezes like the waiting water and it tries to warm itself inside. I wish it would warm; I’m embarrassed when it’s in its cold circumcised cocoon. Get warm already. I can’t fuck with you like that. Wait. I’m not fucking anyway, I’m shitting. Stay where you are. But it begins to warm and it grows back to size, hanging into the toilet, peeing out the congestion. Shit and piss. Beauty. The human, the animal, its all so perfect. Yes, lets write, you and me, dick and mind, man, and add to the shit and piss of the world.

I couldn’t listen to it anymore. The words were just rolling over one another, bouncing off the walls and back and forth and back and forth. It was endless. She wouldn’t stop. I had been listening for some time, three minutes at least, without a single remark in defense. No, I was being a gentleman, I was being courteous. I was “listening.” That thing all men are supposedly incapable of but in this case it had nothing to do with being incapable of it. I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I had been listening as an astute spectator. Furrowing my brow, looking at her, looking into her eyes, not even at her forehead. Right in her eyes, her deep brown, almost black, but not glossy or sparkling like a lovers’ eyes, but like dirt. They looked, and when they looked they judged. They judged me and the way I stood, the way my hips moved in place, the way they move while fucking. No, while making love, slow and smooth.

I was making love to the air between the two of us, just a foot, maybe two, away from her part, her slit. My organ, my fucking organ that got hard when it was aroused by blood, was so very close to her accepting opening, which carried the weight of the world, the weight of existence, the weight of her children, and me. It would carry me. It would carry me soon I would find out, but not yet. No not yet for she was there to yell and enforce, to conjure up resentment in me and forget the fact that I was there to be in her way, as a reminder of her age. A constant of how far she was removed from sexual attraction.

She was repeating and repeating, and no matter what it was that she was saying, I couldn’t deal with it over and over anymore.

She was my boss and I had fucked her daughter. She had a problem with this. I had cum in her daughter. She was not pregnant so I didn’t see the problem. I first thought that that was why she was so mad. I had impregnated her daughter. Me, an asshole with a dead end job going nowhere in life. I would be pissed if my daughter got knocked up by me as well, she would have her reasons, but I didn’t have a daughter and she didn’t have, that is to say, she wasn’t going to have, a granddaughter, so there was no need for all this preaching.

“I used protection,” I said.

She didn’t care. That was not the point. That was not the point at all.

“We did it missionary,” I said. This had no appeal either.

So what was it that would help her past this point, past this yelling? I didn’t know. I had no idea. Her hips were moving too. They were moving more than mine were. Mine swayed slowly, while hers moved with a rapid flight that cut her skirt in half.

The air was wet now. It was wet and I was drinking it in. I was thirsty. I was so thirsty, for water, for milk, for anything that would calm me. Those hips, her hips, mine were nothing now, were making my blood turn from blue to red. From fact to fiction. From flowing to striking. Her dirt eyes were becoming mud, wet with anxiety and power. My own eyes swelled for them and my fists were clenched in my pockets. The lights were white and cast green. Oh for a drink. It was burning and my throat ached.

She looked further into me and talked more and more. Her tongue was moving and racing in and out till the spit became fire on her lips and they shined like lava at night for miles and miles and miles. From space you could see her burning. Right there at her mouth. Right there in front of me.

I was taller than her. Not much taller, but taller, and she wore heels—oh those heels. They pointed and made points point further from muscle to missile. Oh how those calves yelled out loud, louder than she could ever, and how those points flared. The points came together somewhere under that fabric and that fabric was moving. It was moving and turning as she yelled on and on and on.

I fucked her daughter. I didn’t impregnate her daughter. She was not going to be a grand mother; I was not going to be a father. No, we were off the hook for now. But under the green of the lights, under the curling of the hair and the itching of the fabric, an opportunity was taken and hips were revealed. They were moving more than the fabric costume could have possibly disguised, for they were in and out and back and forth and up and down. Her hips were caressed in silk and skin.

I had sex with her daughter and she had found out. My boss had found out. I was to be terminated. Fired. I was to be without a job and poor, but I had fucked. I had cummed and now I had to question if it was worth it. So was it worth it? I still wasn’t sure, for I was realizing that I wasn’t going to get fired at all, it didn’t matter.

I had mounted and pointed it in. We were in a room with a desk and windows and bookcases, with trophies and plaques and pictures, and papers that had been put together in perfectly organized binders. There were millions of numbers in those binders, millions of people, millions of lives that were filed perfectly so that they could be cross-referenced and itemized. The millions of people stared at me. Stared at us. There on the desk, there on the stage, the characters, with the backdrop, a window, a city filled with millions of others being and waiting to be itemized, were acting out the first scene, the only scene. The desk rocked. Oh how it rocked. It shook and shifted. The door was locked. It was closed and locked, but it moved all the same. Jolting with the rhythm. The whole room shook with the pens dance.

From my position I could see it all. I could see the books and binders and pictures and accolades. I could see the world and the glass and steel that were humanity’s answer to doubt and pride, and I continued the plight. We could do it. We could all do it. I could do it and she could do it. She could scream and move and moan and I could grunt and fulfill, and forever think about another place where I had kissed a girl on a playground, in a red and yellow steel hiding place, away from teachers, hidden, scared, happy, living, feeling for the first time, and getting chills from every touch and caress till my eyes were closed and we were no longer on the playground but in a field, on a rock, away from it all. Away from everything except for the green grass and the lemonade

sun.

But now, now I was among it all. I was with it and from it and apart of it. I fuck it every night and day as I wake and sleep, sipping my breakfast, peeling my lunch, describing my dinner, no longer scared of coffee and how it may stunt my growth. I was no longer anything but another producer trying not to produce. Another binder. But there she was and she was naked and bare, with skin sweating in the sun allowing me to forget about it all and push and pull the thickness of flesh till the sweat was engrossing and flowing, and the hair was throwing the desk apart and alive.

Her hair was moving everything. Her body and mine. I moved with her hair and my back ached and moaned with her. I wasn’t on the rock anymore. I was in the rock, in steel and glass, and millions of feet in the air above the grid below. I would never be with the grass again. I would never be in the sun with the green all around me again. This was where the forever above and beyond of virginity had disappeared to.

I thought about her while I came. Was she still in the grass, under the sun, waiting and waiting and waiting on that rock? I couldn’t even remember when or where it was. It was so long ago it seemed. So long ago.

My shit was in the water. My dick was hanging in the bowl with the shit. Not touching, just looking at one another. They knew they had some affiliation with each other, just not sure exactly what. They were both important, they knew that, but they weren’t sure which one was more so. My shit was in the water. My dick was hanging. Both were waiting for an answer, but I didn’t have one.

I wiped and flushed and found the alcohol.