Austin James


I haven’t had an orgasm since puberty, an ejaculation that nearly killed me. I’ve been careful ever since, and going to the bar with Erica isn’t smart. But when she discovers my little secret and asks me out for a drink, the tattoos of featureless red birds spiraling up her arms and out into the uncaged atmosphere, I can’t decline.

Erica has tanglewood eyes and more ear piercings than I can count without sweeping her chestnut hair out of the way. Her lowcut shirt shows skin beneath her belly button and clings tight to her breasts, which are harnessed in a bra that jostles them about every time she moves. Blue jeans grip her ass like greedy hands.

The bar she chooses, a shithole named Shotgunners, is humid and spongy, with empty shot glasses scattered everywhere like spent shells on a battlefield. The crowd around the bar looms a dozen people thick, so a hundred-dollar bill ensures the bombshell waitress keeps our glasses full while we stake claim to the only vacant table (wet and sticky from spilt drinks).

We drink while bobbing-and-weaving through small talk. She licks her lips and watches my mouth move when I say things. Laughs at all my jokes, places her hand on my forearm when doing so.

“You really named your dick ‘the Alamo’?” She asks, lighting a fresh cigarette before putting the old one out, its bittermint menthol smell swallowing both of us. She takes her smoke like a deep kiss.

“Yep, because you’ll always remember it, hehe.” Even I can’t believe the dangerous, drunken pick up lines I’m weaving.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she mocks.

We drink more. She says her roommate is named Kiko Magellan, which is bullshit—no one is named Kiko Magellan.

At some point an urban beat bounces through the speakers,decelerating life’s natural vibrations. Everyone moves in slow motion, the skin on their faces slinking towards the ground like molten cheese. I hold my breath and count the stars inside my eyelids until the world resumes its average pace.

“Oh—Ilovethis song. Wanna dance?” Erica asks, flushing the rest of her bloody mary down her throat. Without waiting for an answer, she floats out of her chair and moves towards a herd of dancers. I follow her onto a hardwood dancefloor that’s scarred from high heel warfare.

She reaches back and interlocks her fingers behind my neck, shoulder blades against my chest. She strokes my earlobe, bites her lip, touches her face. My fingers slip across her stomach, smooth like top shelf scotch.

She arches her back, pressing her ass into my crotch.

Rolling thrusts against my dick.

Grinding. Twisting.

Her skin reminds me of honey. Her hair is all beachy waves and caramel highlights and giddy pheromones. I breathe it in.

My blood-enflamed penis makes its presence known. I think of naked George Washington with a mouthful of miniature politicians squirming between his teeth; wigless and hogtied to a stick, spit-roasting inside a microwave oven. Orgasmic fluids slow and coagulate, bulging and backlogging at the tip of my dick—a fire hose at the pinch point in an old timey cartoon.

“I’m not sure about this,” I warn, but Erica either can’t hear me or doesn’t care. She rubs her hand against my erection inside my khakis. She bites her lower lip and looks achingly into my eyes. I kiss her, and she bites mylower lip when I try to pull away.

Her apartment is within drunken stumbling distance of the bar.

Sloppy, feral sex. She squeals as I thrust in and out, taking handfuls of her ass and spreading the cheeks apart to get just a little deeper. She arches her back to get herself as far up and out there as possible. Balls slap against her clit as she drips with syrupy satisfaction. I cram my unwashed thumb into her butthole, its acceptance tight and suctioning.

She gasps something about it being “so, so dirty”.

Everything smells like cadmium and other heavy metals.

She slips a vibrator up her ass, alongside my thumb as I plunge away at her from behind. I watch in the mirror as her dangling breasts sway and jolt in every direction—tidal waves that grow from butt-cheek-ripples created by my jackhammering pelvis.

I jerk her head back by a fistful of her hair. Spank her ass until it welts. Squeeze her tit as hard as I can. Choke her from behind. Call her a slut. She screams for me to fuck her. Harder.

The pressure. Builds. Then erupts. In blood, and cum.

And bullets.

9mm slugs spray everywhere like killer rain, ripping open the end of my penis in a pleasureful, painful, pitiful sensation. Tearing through her uterus, lungs, throat, and detonating out the top of her head, leaving a mushy stump where her scalp used to be. Hot shell casings burn flesh as they splay out of me and ricochet off the wall, the mattress, Kiko Magellan’s exposed erection in the corner chair. Bullets, smoke, the smell of gunpowder.

Relief, sweet euphoric relief.

Her body crumples to the bed, tanglewood eyes still open.

Blood and dead bird tattoos and cum and bullet-holes and shell casings everywhere.


“There’s no way you’re a virgin…virgins don’t fuck that good,” Erica says, lying jumbled in her sheets without any fucking left in her, sharing a minty cigarette with Kiko. Her words suck me back into the current dimension, the one without blood and black powder residue.

My slut slayer did its job, like always. It’s time to go writhe in guilt and grief and regret until the urge to hunt again becomes unbearable. I get dressed and leave without saying a word.

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