Base and Sublime

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I'm jumproping outside. My girlfriend shouts out to take off my shorts. She's with her good friend. I comply on the fly, throw off the workout clothes and I'm just down to my black silk boxers, clearly turned on by this on-demand show that I get to turn back on them. Such a turn-on to have them look at me, even if they're laughing at the fact that just followed through on something I know she didn't think I'd do. So I'm in control, getting harder as I jump. It bobs around like a clumsy sword and I shake it and wiggle my prick at the sliding-glass door. I start thinking about them coming with me to the bathroom, or to eagerly slurp my cock out here on the patio. I want both of them to share dick, trading off their sucks with 50/50 joy/jealousy. Or else pump me in the shower, one hand each around my shaft, as I fondle their four plump tits with indiscriminate vigor. These fleshy, sexy, giggly college girls, so soft and supple and giggling and horny now in their giggling. I want them dog-ready, backsides obeyantly arched, their now-engorged pussies filling the room with that perfect, heavy musk that programs me and charges my balls with maximum fuel. I need that tangy stench all over me.

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She twists around to look at me. Her plump, pale ass dribbling with cum as she looks back at him with lustful approval. Her fat twists at her back but her ass remains centered and presented, holy and stable there with precious sugary cum driblets tickling her asshole and gooping down to the linoleum. There are certain kinds of flattery in this world, from the sublime to the base. This was the latter, the Marquis de Sade kind. It deserved as much recognition as anything sublime.

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Some realm of steam and naked women of every shape and size, every race and creed (though this one has a satanic denomination). A hot tub bubbling with cum. It's understood it all is mine. There sits a voluptuous Latina in just some purple silk thong, hair down to the small of her back. Her legs dangle and dip into the gurgling, bittersweet batter. Her powerful brown eyes are laden with makeup. A bit of smearing. She smiles at me and dips her hand in to trail across her neck my cream. She observes it as it dribbles down her plump cleavage, and then she casually twirls and traces it about her breasts and her erect nipples with radii of silver dollars, flicking her fingers over the heart nips as she smiles up at me.

"You did this," she says, moaning and rubbing her "creamcunt," she calls it. She continues this awhile and I am mesmerized completely, until she points across from her, where appears suddenly, like a graphic that suddenly comes into focus, a pale, freckly white woman, just as voluptuous and just as clothed (but a pink sheer thong for her), just as casual with my seed, rubbing cumfuls about her breasts (these with delicate pinkish, small nips, equally suckable) but with a faster eagerness. Several handfuls.

Then they both point me to sit in the tub. They are something like angels—in this realm at least, to my taste at least. They both stand up and walk toward my erect lap, come closely to my cock, their tongues teasingly out, eyes never leaving my contact. One takes me in her mouth and at the moment of contact I am blind or closing my eyes, I can't tell. But one takes me in deep to her throw and closes in on it, and slurps me about, her cummed tits trailing my hard quads and loose balls. The other speaks up: "You will dream of this. This is real. You will dream of this." Then the Latina strips down her panties and presents her perfect roundness to me. The white girl pours handfuls of goop on her back and rubs it in, whitening her flesh with the sticky dreamcream. She wiggles her ass down on my cock, so veiny to sneak into her tight ass. Slowly she sits herself down on this staff, slipping me into the silken cavern, then she dips faster on me. The grip, the breast cupping, the hair tugging, the back caressing-then-scratching, the shoulder-controlling, the two hands on the rump. She says before I cum to pop it in her ass. I am into the rhythm just as—-

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You walk in blindfolded. I haven't allowed you to know where I live. I make you stand in the center of my living room. You're in a black dress and I know you've got just a thong and stocking on under all that. I order you to hike it up for me. I smack that plump ass , and you don't know how hard I am for you and I don't know yet how wet you are for me. "I'm going to eat you 'til you scream. And you're going to suck me until I cream your pretty little face."

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From here, the violin plays as a muscular ass pumps and flexes as splayed legs flail above a patched red and white quilt on the white sands.

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You know the song: 'There's a hole in the wall where the boys can see it all. And the girls don't care cuz they see their underwear.' And then see them drop their collective drawers and unveil their varied cocks that they stick in a hole to get a thirsty whore to swallow the jizz their women won't swallow, or so they say.

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Another voluptuous woman dancing for her man on Skype, dressing up just as she said she would. She loves to be hypnotized, to hear his voice alone while she is the objectified. She loves to be told to rub it just as he commands—spread the lips and caress the clit openly, then purse them together and trickle a finger along their delicate folds. Then penetrate, slowly, one finger in, dipping in with periscopic curiosity, enjoying the silken walls squeezing on that digit dick. Then another finger, then a fast frigging as he moans and pistons his cock into a roaring—-

This is the one that is real. The story that's real. The woman has a name. It's Kristen. They barely know each other. They have corresponded pornographically for weeks but it is still more real than all the aggregate footage of pornography in his head or outside him.

When they have cum a bit, they chat a little. Strange for them. They are so used to shutting down their cyborgian screens and adjusting themselves briefly to real life before delving into that other realm of also-easily-forgotten dreams.

So the chatting goes on longer than usual.

She lights up as he's known her to do. Says she needs to get away. The weed can do the trick. He asks her why. She says to stave off the panic attack that seems to be just around the corner. He says he lights up just for fun. He thinks to himself how that's a part of his fortune. There's something more to say.

"Two family members have already passed. Freakish. I mean, one was kind of coming, but not the other. And I think there's a third one that's due soon. I can feel it. I mean, and the paranoia isn't false. I mean I have reason."

"Another one's gonna die?"

"No. Another bad thing. Think I'm gonna be evicted."

The man says nothing. She goes on and he knows he can't do much to speak from her side of things—the pain is too unique. He only sympathizes, and he's learned that presence is best.

Nothing is really accomplished that night but some kind of humanness. He goes on about his ailing father, about his anxieties of impending caregiving. The pain can hover in a suspended limbo when two people speak like this.

We bury to uncover again, we suppress to address later, we veil to unveil, we hide our heads in the sand to come up and breathe and realize that this air was meant for us. Every 'ahha' moment is made of the molecules of simplicity.

This is the realm that is real. The one where there is conversation, however brief, however far. Where the running stops and scars relax for a few minutes.

Remark on each other's wounds, curious to the touch. They are unafraid to listen and fearless to being heard. No orders are given: only the come-hither motion to notice this. Now that.