by Elvie Suzuki
we looked at each other from across the turkey table, surrounded by six chairs broken in degrees -- wobbly legs twisted to falling off, backs that wouldn't stand straight -- and i wanted it.
he slept in the treehouse.
those mornings you awake and you know the kind of day it's going to be, for everything that happens just as you predict it, you gain a certain satisfaction. i awoke and i knew i would go up there and that something bad forbidden untrue would happen. but i liked it.
i left my underwear on, already clinging wet to myself, and to his bed i climbed the steps, one tree twig sanded into human walkway up up up and he was underneath the sheets and i shook him and he awoke and he knew it was a bad thing to happen too and the smell was thick and hot and humid tropical
"crawl in with me" and offered the blanket up
and i came in it was autumntime cold, and we did that thing you can only refer to as "snuggling" the way bunnies do: this is the sentiment here.
and we talked about the day and our plans and all manner of things but eventually we knew and that fortune was to crack and i could feel him grow inside and it made me sigh a heavy sigh and i pushed ever so slightly -- so slightly you could hold it in your hand -- and he pushed and eventually it was the monster throats dry among the branches and the leaves and i wish i were so goddamn high yes, this was the place where my husband and i sat and drank and smoked hash on his birthday, and that light downstairs is the bedroom where we share our secrets -- all but this one, which will always be quiet.
"god, look at that ass."
i visited every day and i felt better and worse every time i did it. that rush i only knew previously from cocaine and from running in a hotel room with that soon-to-be-bride of mine, running into the bathroom and kissing, the sweet crass. a rush humans live for but can only find in minute and slowly dying amounts of caffeine, amphetamines, never enough. this is the rush i wanted to immortalize.
it worsened but i felt better and worse.
i put my hand in my husband's and i had told him everything but.
we contorted in positions disgusting if you knew, on the bed i have used your bed for my yolk on another's face. and we kissed on the couch where you and i do the thing "snuggling." he would not kiss me at first because well it's not right but finally he did melted and deserving it wasn't in the least the best but it was like acquiring a trophy i never wanted but was lucky to have anyway.
i had to piss, but he cornered me, shot me up against the wall, pushed his fat cock into me and whispered into my ear, one hand pressed on my breast, the other against the striped wallpaper
once he pushed me i was a first-grader and he was in the fifth grade and he pushed me on the grass, and there were ugly stains on my knees and i wanted to cry, and and and my tears were hot and embarrassed for crying because i was 24 and not 6, and i told teacher and you know, teachers they just admonish but never punish the way you want them to punish.
so i ruined his marriage instead. and i didn't let him rape me, i rolled my crotch around on that same bed where my husband and i wove our dreams, i rolled my crotch away from his lips and his tongue and his cock and i would not let him fuck me again. does that count for something, lord? i found my integrity in the schoolyard and fuck him i would not let him rip me from my panties as bad as i wanted it. i concentrated on all the fears and all the bad clicks: the chili in his mouth, the stings in his armpits, the rash on his cock, i closed my eyes and made sure i would not break his home more than once. shove out the natives from their mud doors.
There's nothing special about Elvie Suzuki, except for her performance art. The strangest place she's masturbated is in a tiny closet while watching her two acquaintances have sex. She wishes she had a video
camera to record that once-in-a-lifetime event.