The night was cold and bright. Clouds following in the wake of the storm
formed long lines of scud, their tops swept back as if by speed. They
flowed out to the ocean, fry chasing after their cold mother who sat all
day long on us obscuring the sun and filling our gutters with icewater.
Powerlines ranged against the clouds. The palms whispered, blowing
drops on the windshield. Puddles in the gutters. Wind thunder in ears, in
this nosecold night.
     I was receiving the most exquisite head. In the warm car, the window
gap — every freshet of clean November air swooned me nearly as much as
my date's exquisite lips. Outside, cars roared by on singular, separate
errands.
     There was nothing she'd rather be doing, I knew. When alcohol
loosened the wardrobe of her mind and the ideas of day were distant and
ludicrous, she craved cock. Or rather, the taste of come. Then her
suctioning mouth on my organ (or another man's, if she were drunk
elsewhere) and work it wetly and lipsmacking until I (or he) delivered
the nourishment she was looking for.
     Every outside surface was cold and bright and clean. Droplets big as
quarters shivered on the newspaper machines, those poor metal boxes
doomed to live outside, rain or shine. Beyond the pines was the church,
and beyond that the 18-storey retirement hotel, weak glimmering light in
the windows, like the weak souls of the pre-dead old people within. A
vertical carton of aspiring ghosts.
     This was a ghost night...a ghost would come out on a night like
this. Perhaps a ghost would spurt from my cock on a night like this. What
if my balls were dead? Would my babies be born ghosts? If I had ghost
quintuplets, would I ever be able to keep track of them all? They'd
vanish, not having control over that ability yet, and stay vanished, and
then cry insanely — when they popped back in, who knew where they'd be?
Actually, initially they'd be right around where you left them, provided
you could lift them and leave them anywhere — but once they started
crawling, look the fuck out!
     These were not my thoughts then, naturally. These aren't my thoughts
now. They're entirely false lines of words, which have absolutely nothing
to do with thoughts anyway — people don't think in words, but in images,
raw associations, long strings of snake, rainbow ribbon, colored entwined
endless spaghetti. Raw pasta endlessly pressed, curling and forming loops
and spirals, the better for catching your foot or your neck. Or a
venemous snake which might eventually come around and bruise your heel,
as they say.
     I was only paying about 45% attention to anything in particular, and
the lion's share of that was geared toward detecting approaching police
vehicles. The rest focused on tabulating and storing the exquisite
sensations emanating from my flesh Pez dispenser.