In the middle of the sexiest parking lot there was a tower thirty stories high. There was nothing in it but a staircase stretching higher than I ever cared to go. And for a few hours every day the males and the females would leapfrog up the tower staircase, penetrating each other in the process but never achieving orgasm before reaching the top. And so, upon bursting out of the thirtieth story window, they would plummet to their death, fundamentally unsatisfied.
And so it went on. I grew tired of craning my neck and ultimately receded from the scene. In doing so I stepped backwards into a stray tire and took a fall of my own. But I never hit the ground; I didn’t see any reason to. I never understood people who passively accepted the mechanical consequences of their physical actions.
Take for instance my friend Faber, who was stabbed. He simply let it get in the way of his overall health. It wasn’t the stabbing that killed him, it was all the bleeding. But then again, I am of the opinion that he did it for the chicks, for he knew he would get laid more as a corpse than he ever did when he was alive. But I digress.
I had decided to stop falling to the ground, but didn’t feel like returning to not falling at all. So I tried falling in the other direction for a time, but grew short of breath and somewhat dehydrated. I thought, in a somewhat delirious state, of my former lover, and how I missed the way she used to crawl completely inside me and pleasure me from the inside – a talent I had not found in any of the most expensive prostitutes I had hired since the unfortunate breakup.
And oh, the things they would do to me to try to satisfy that need she had left in my heart. I can still feel their cold prostheses tickling my prostate – since surgically removed. It was an empty feeling. It was a desperate attempt to revisit that feeling I had once had when my hot wriggling god-given prostate lay still in my holiest of orifices.
And so I floated for a while, though I couldn’t tell you how long. I began to consider a descent to some more accessible reality when another wandering individual floated into view. The stranger took the form of a girl of some beauty, nude except for perhaps a little bit too much skin. And so it was apropos that we should meet in our suspended state and engage for a short time in some pleasantries. Her taught vagina greeted with some happy resistance my fingers as one by one they sought to understand her. I was obliged to grab her waist and pull her anus to my nose, such that my tongue had proper access to her unadulterated and curiously odorless vagina, but alas, I found myself without appendages. And in a moment of confusion and doubt, she drifted away.
I found my arms, of course, in mere minutes of panicked searching, and felt fairly foolish for misplacing them so, as I had misplaced before some of my most important body parts. I wondered, momentarily, about my old penis, and if it had been put to good use. My new one was better, of course. There was no denying that. My old penis couldn’t go as deep as my new penis, and it couldn’t shoot as far. But I had shared so much with my first penis.
My first penis was the one that broke down the emotional barriers between my sister and me when I was young. It was the penis that cooed and purred when she tickled it with her tongue. It was the penis that taught me how to sensually rub myself into her body. It was the penis that laughed when it found itself covered in the innocent blood of youthful discovery.
My new penis doesn’t laugh or coo or purr, it just shouts and takes and spits. I can’t help but envy those who I encounter whose penises coo and purr and laugh when I take them in my mouth and in my ass. Faber had a penis of insatiable humor, and, after his death, I entertained myself with the notion of acquiring it. But alas, I found upon entering his tomb that it had curdled with time and no longer responded to my careful touch in the ways it once had.
I felt compelled to satisfy those urges that arose upon my meeting with the floating youth, and so I returned to a more prudent station and walked in the traditional way into a house where I suspected some other such youth might reside. And indeed, there were two! They sat nude, opposite one another in bath tub, clean, but seemingly jaded. Upon my entrance to this room, both youths fled out the opposite door, up an adjacent staircase. I pursued them. The water that dripped off their goose-pimpled flesh smelled of gasoline, and as we sprinted up the staircase, they gained a considerable lead. From behind me, I heard the unmistakable crackle of flame pursuing me as I did the youths. I quickened my pace, but nonetheless lost sight of the youths as they disappeared into the sky.
I approached a window atop the staircase, and felt my panicked instincts press me forward through the glass and down to the loving pavement thirty stories below. But I chose not to resign to that sort of lowbrow pleasure. And instead, I turned about-face and walked into the flame. It hurt quite a lot, but after a while, it didn’t hurt as much any more.
