Nothing is Perfect


Jennifer and I finished fucking and it was a long aggressive session, and I took off the cock rings and I stopped recording, and the bed was on fire so I got up and walked into the living room and sat in the lazyboy and tried to expose as much of my surface area as possible to the cool air, and my balls lay on the recliner fabric like a panting dog tongue, and I got a text from this girl asking if I was getting into anything good tonight, and I chuckled with heavy breath, and Miley Cyrus was on Jimmy Fallon and the sound was still off, and she was wearing some sort of rasta k-pop thing,  and I noticed there were shards of viagra still on the tv stand, and I smoked a bowl and reclined naked and tapped an ice cold coke and everything was perfect.

Except it was really a Pepsi because nothing is perfect, and Jennifer came out and said she thought the brownie was starting to work and I told her about the time the frozen acid didn’t kick in until after I fucked my ex girlfriend because there was a single acid paper I was keeping in the freezer and it was there for almost two years and in fact, it moved between two apartments and I just never had the right opportunity to trip, and it was maybe not even enough for one person and I was bored one night and out of pot so I just said fuck it and my girlfriend had been convinced through experience that she couldn’t be affected by LSD anyway on account of her spinal injury, and after an hour or two I didn’t feel anything and I thought whatever and we fucked and then as soon as I came and rolled over I sank into the bed and kept sinking and sinking and sinking and I was sort of locked into a trip for the night and I was sort of an asshole just curled up at the edge of the bed watching a movie with Marlon Waynes and Steven Segal and kept her up all night when she had to work in the morning and I could’ve gone into the living room and I had no pot to even me out and I went to sleep as soon as she blew me and left for work.

Jennifer let out a charming cackle and turned around. She wiggled her butt as she walked back into the bedroom and three breaths later I was on top of her with my right hand around her throat and my left hand pinning down her wrist. Her other hand gripped my forearm, pulling at it with delightful futility. Her legs were wrapped around my waist as best as she could manage while I pushed my fat wood inside her. I let go of her wrist and grabbed a handful of her bouncy, tight, curls, which were slightly slick with coconut oil. I liked when she wore braids but I loved her natural hair; it just felt right, and she smiled when I pulled back on it. I’ve heard many people say you should never mess with a black woman’s hair. Bullshit.

We had just started up again and my cock was sore already, but I kept going, weak and shaking. She was still in pain, no longer bleeding, but each thrust still presented a challenge to her tolerance. She was mine to do with whatever I wished.

This was becoming a familiar scene. They all seemed to love it this way, their free will taken away. With my hand around their throats, they like being deprived of blood flow, air flow. There’s a thrill. I came to the conclusion it’s only enjoyable because they have faith and trust that their breath will come back. Even gasping for air, gurgling, aching inside, it will come back. If I ever feel myself anxious, slipping away into that darkness, the light receding, my breath with it, if I feel the abyss staring back at me, maybe I can accept the same faith and emerge from my panic with a smile on my face the same as they do.


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