by Kyle Hemmings
It was somewhere during the middle of the day and in a porn theater around midtown. I should have been volunteering for some overtime at the post office. The guy, two rows in front of me, whose face I never did see, was masturbating with such a ferocity, that it sounded like a piston or maybe a car about to break down. Some of the customers turned their heads from the movie towards him as if to say Do you have to be so loud, asshole? On screen, a blonde haired vixen, with a pimple below one ass cheek, was kneeling in a field of daisies and wild horses. Her butt was to this guy with a shaft the length of Pinochio's nose after about 16 outrageous lies. "Let's do it like the horses do," she said with this Southern twang, thick as melted chocolate. Behind me, somebody yelled out, "Make her squeal like a pig." She reminded me of this girl I used to date, one who invented incredible versions of the past and stole a couple of my best watches. On screen, the two of them tried to outdo each other as if in a screeching contest, finished, and fell over. The camera closed in on a chestnut mustang running. The guy two rows up groaned, then left the theater. The lights went on, but nobody moved.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey, where he still attempts skateboarding and continues to fall. The strangest place he ever masturbated was in a bathroom at someone's funeral. The one thing he did this week that he is proud of: he complimented a 90 year old woman on her complexion.