The Ikea mattress had only been with me a few months and was already destroyed. It was hardly meant to support someone of my own weight, much less two or three people. The rows of pocket coil springs were splayed and bulging and pushed way into my back. It was a temporary replacement anyway since I was tired of sleeping on the couch.
At the store, when they show you the mattress, and the insides, it looks logically beautiful, rationally comfortable. But even a good idea, turned on its head, will hurt your back. And now I tried envisioning the mattresses’ topography, based on how it felt. My right thigh rested within its abyssal plain, while my left was beached on a shore of pillows. My head lay off the face of the earth, staring out into the exosphere.
“No more boots on the bed,” I muttered to myself.
The fissures and faults found a flux of faceless flesh. My breath was still. My mind was still. The world was still. My neighbors didn’t exist. Work was a fiction. I gave no thought to the rotting avocadoes in the kitchen. For all I cared I was dead. And I loved it. I held on to this little death as long as I could, until I heard someone approaching from the bathroom door. It was a familiar sequence. The water ran, the door latched, the floor creaked, but I panicked as I tried to remember who it was. They were just here, who was it? Fuck fuck who is it? How could I forget? It seemed as though entire civilizations rose and fell in the time since I expired. I ran through a list of names but came to realize they were just failed grunts. until I saw her upside-down face appear, framed by her breasts which she dangled before me, bending down for a kiss.
I told her how prostitutes in the wild west would put a leather blanket at the bottom of the bed, because men didn’t want to take time removing their boots. She didn’t seem to care or understand. She simply groaned, and then drowned herself in my rocky ocean.
I remembered her name now, and how we got here. I said “I told you so” and she didn’t respond. I chuckled because earlier that night she prided herself on her endurance and drive and told me she was always ready for it, always up for a go, always down for more, like I was the bottleneck in her sex diet. I told her I was going to prove her wrong and that no matter how much it hurt me, I was going to hurt her even more.
If she thinks I can simply be swallowed up and forgotten, I will take it as a challenge. Each time she approached the cusp of orgasm she would gasp deeply, holding in her breath. Then she held off the release for as long as she could, each one a little longer, until it pushed forth in a delightfully torturous, weeping convulsion. I would give her a few seconds to calm down, then tell her how to change positions, because that’s what she liked. She wanted to see what I’ve learned. I gave it to her until she cried out that she couldn’t take anymore, slapping me on the chest. Having recovered for a while now I tugged on her from within the mattress.
“Turn over,” I told her. She waivered. Huffed. “Turn over,” I repeated, pressing my cock against her leg.
She managed to squeeze out a no. “What did you say?”
“No,” she said again, trembling. “Later.”
“When?” I asked.
“Couple days,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s what I thought.”