I slowly rub my index finger through his pucker, feeling the bumps, valleys, veins; droplets of water, spit, sweat, water-based lube, ripped cheap-rubber bits, hour-old anonymous pre/cum, poorly-douched shit-tainted secretions. I feel his pulse as I course through his hole, taint and beating pussy.
I allow my middle finger to join his brother and his surrounding twelve-hour-old sprouts of hair prick their sides.
His pussy lips are red. Every couple of minutes a drop of blood falls from him and plings onto the saturated sheets, a small pool of scarlet laying over them.
“Is it a happy matter to do
To drink up your enemy's blood?”
The Woman, Anatomy of Hell
I catch the following drop. It sits, unmoved, unchanging, stuck to my tip, nearly coagulated. I press it onto his hole, never puncturing him, but making sure it fully enters.
He moans.
I drag my finger into his pussy and claw at some more globules, pulling out when I'm tainted enough. Bits of flesh stick, cling, to the underside of my inch-long plasticky black nails and I climb him, reaching over his nearly shaved head and pressing it onto his lips.
“Stop. Stay in your place.”
I pull my finger through his forehead, into his scalp, across his back and bring it towards my dick, jerking it, blood as lube.
His asshole has a life of its own. His moans come from a different body. There's a connection, as if through some copper/iron cables, but they're two different beings. I want to make love to it, not him. I want to fuck him, not it. I want to rape him, not it. I want to penetrate it, not him.
There's a camera in the corner of the room, angled towards my back, his hole. There's no mic, his moans too soft, too mattress/sheet/shut-lips muffled to be picked up by the camera. Only the silent buzz of the ceiling fan, the windowed car horns, the off old-TV-static. It doesn't pick it up. The blood coursing through every bump, valley, vein in it. It doesn't pick it up.
I approach it, puckered lips closing in on his taint; through-teeth tongue trying to pierce them for a taste. My six-months-on-E extra-sensitive nipples yearn for it, aching with anticipation.
My tongue runs through his taint like it was covered in too-salty two-day-over-expiration-date butter, and goes straight to his pucker. What I felt with my tips I could now taste. What I tasted with my tips I could now feel. Our pulses matched, every one of his libido heartbeats accompanied by one of mine—painfully, miserably, love-achingly.
The mix of clear fluids and solid-stained ones felt like the motherly dinner I'd never had; the cozy sick together TV-watching afternoons I'd never had; the “I love you”s I'd never had. I felt it, and it felt me. I understood it, and it understood me. I loved it, and it loved me.
I came. Catching the dead single-spurt of sperm with my palm, I slowly tilt it towards my tip and carry it over to his hole. I carefully push the liquid into it, making sure to never pierce the pucker with my finger, feeding it as if you would a baby.
I get up, look at the camera—my flaccid dick and barely-distinguishable-from-fat-man-tits tits pointing at it, accusingly—and leave the hotel room. There was a man waiting by the door, and I hold it so he can get in.
Its Sniffies “event” was online for five hours after that.
-- Ai Feith is a multidisciplinary artist working within film, performance, music and writing. She has had works published in SCAB and World Hunger Magazine. She works within the pornographic, however you personally define it. She can't stop talking about gender.
