);

SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY LIFE by Meeah Williams

I could sense it coming like a mule senses thunder.

I had his cock in my mouth and I was trying to keep my neck from being too traumatized when he bucked his hips in short hard thrusts. It was like being a passenger in a car whose driver proceeded down the street by slamming on the brakes every three seconds. I’m getting whiplash just thinking about it. I watched people on the sidewalk stop, stare, and the expressions on their faces said “What the hell is that all about?”

I leaned out the window and threw confetti at the parade-goers lining the pavement, smiling like a prom queen, my teeth gnashing together. 

What I mean is that I smiled like a porn star, a cock thrust balls-deep in my ass.

“It’s okay, ok-k-k-k-kkay,” I cry, throwing more confetti, which is actually colored rice, crying, my mascara running, thinking “isn’t this over yet?”

Thinking, when the birds swallow this rice it’s gonna bloat up in their little bellies and they’ll explode and die.

This bed is like a raft in the middle of the ocean and I’m looking for an island, a tanker, a helicopter, anything to wave my arms at. 

You’re in the helicopter, hovering, but all you’re doing is watching. Yes, I’m talking to YOU, the watcher, the reader, whoever. YOU!

When you cum–or get bored–you hit the off button. It’s even worse when you hit “pause,” and there I am, eyes shut, mouth black-ovaled, looking like I’m in pain, the thick shiny thing half in and half out of me, almost human-looking, human plumbing, clogged, and I’m waiting, waiting waiting either for the thrust or the withdrawal and getting neither. Just that clogged plumbing with no flow…

“Fuck you!” we both shout, you and I. 

No, I’m not going through all that again. We’re going mad with thirst anyway. It can’t be long now. I’m going to test my luck in the choppy water, whatever that means. I’m going to commit myself to the waves.

Hello Ocean!

“Certain death,” he ventures a guess. But he’s already commandeered the machete, don’t think I don’t know it. He’s figuring he’ll clobber me on the head, cut open some part of me, drink my blood. He’s bearded now, maniacal, looking like a two-legged Ahab.

“Thar she blows,” he says and with his pirate telescope points up to the sky which looks like the aftermath of a flash photograph–a flash photograph of nothing—or everything.

I slip into the water, where the sharks are slouching about in their leather jackets, cigarettes dangling from their louche lips, posing with self-conscious nonchalance in a way they’re well aware shows off their new tattoos to best advantage.

Oh the sharks aren’t as bad as reported. Fake news, you see. I meet one with a Brooklyn accent and a history of trumped-up mayhem. But he’s ready to turn a new clam shell, so he says. I can be a trusting soul, when I’m desperate enough. I jump on the back of his jet-ski and wheeeeeee…

We’re bouncing over the waves now. My hair flowing out behind me like a banner that says “Welcome home, Johnny!” 

There’s a desert island with your name on it somewhere. But it’s not on any map and you have to put your name on it yourself.

“Who’s Johnny?” I yell into the shark’s non-existent ear. 

He doesn’t answer. His body is thick, smooth, one big chunk of remorseless muscle built by a lifetime of endless swimming and fed by murdered mermaids. He smells like Brut, not fishy at all. He’s got about 300 teeth in that mouth of his. Sure they can reduce me to a bloody hash within seconds. But, wow, when he’s in the mood, you should see him smile.

Read Next: I HOPE THERE’S NUZZLING by Marisa Crane