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“The Writer's Life” by Ian Philips
Excerpted from See Dick Deconstruct

As much as I delight in your welcoming ass, it is your voice that I am paying for tonight. You sit atop me and read my words—many more than these—back to me. You claim to be from London and I believe you. For your mouth’s particular spinning of vowels and consonants raises my modest round tower to royal heights. Your sparsely haired thighs straddle my womanly hips while your disinterested dick sleeps on my gut. Your muscles—so close to the skin’s pale surface—tense when I thrust to punctuate a line that makes you laugh or pause.

These moments of lightness belie the distance between our bodies pressed so intimately together. You have run half your race. I have only thirty brief minutes left with you.

I ask you to read another, darker tale. And while you recite it, I add, you must wake that cock of yours and have him ready to sing by our story’s end. Since you are as professional as you are beautiful, you do just that until you come to the final period. Then, clutching my book in one hand and gripping me through the transparent wall of latex with your asshole, you chew your lower lip and jerk your dick so violently it looks as if you’re shaking a martini. You spill, in biting, burning splashes, across my belly and breasts.

“Lap it up.” You pull away from me to do it. “Tear out that page and wipe up what’s left and put it in your mouth.” You laugh again but indulge me. You too must know the high fever of a fetish. “Kiss me,” I beg. You bend even closer to me. I swallow pulp, spit, sperm, and your tongue.

I am one with the Word. I am one with You.

Our time is up.

 

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