by J. Bradley
Gary and his wife occasionally enjoyed tag teaming other men orally, so he explained on my cellphone from an unlisted number. “My wife's not coming with me. She's not into meeting strangers at their houses.” Gary's wife looked tan, had a lovely pair of tits, but her face and voice were vacant from the background while he asked for my address.
Gary stood in my door way, the black shirt hugging his tapped out pony keg of a stomach.. “Oh yeah, that feels nice. Let me see it”; his dissection of my pants would have received a C- in seventh grade biology. We sat on the couch as he played county fair judge with the prize sow of my scrotum.
“Can we take this into the bedroom?” Gary sounded like he got his come-hither tone from Jared Leto on My So-Called Life. We walked through the Cormac McCarthy novella of my hallway toward the bedroom. “My wife would have said something about your house if she was here”; my mother said to always remain polite during interviews and tryouts.
I wanted the two minutes Gary spent sucking my cock back. I wanted to ask Gary's wife if Gary also tapped her on the back of the head while his cock was in her mouth, how long did it take to exorcise the ghost of his frenulum from her tonsils, how much kindling and matches it would take to burn the awkward celluloid of this moment.
J. Bradley is the author of The Serial Rapist Sitting Behind You Is A Robot (Safety Third Enterprises, 2010) and the Interview Editor at PANK Magazine. He lives at iheartfailure.net. One of his favorite songs to have sex to is "Search and Destroy", The Stooges
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