When she slides off her clothes and lies next to me, I squeeze a mole on her belly and she calls me names. Dirty names. Filthy names. She calls me a smelly fuck because I refuse to wash on our days off from work or even change my clothes. My armpits have a tangy air to them and she hates it but can’t stop sniffing. My cock smells, and so she pulls back the foreskin and wipes what’s underneath with a random sock to make it a little better even though I tell her I’m too tired to do anything. After a time of not speaking, she moans that I’m not paying her enough attention and threatens to leave. Waiting for a response, I intentionally turn my back on her and mock close my eyes. Jumping off the bed and grabbing her stuff, she attempts to dart from the room but I take hold of her arm and pull her back. She hisses and scratches and states in no uncertain terms that she finds me hideous in so many ways but when we exchange a kiss things simmer down and we take up our positions again on top of the duvet. Could order a pizza but neither of us has the money, and neither of us can be bothered to do anything but just lie around. Grabbing one of her tits, her right one, my favourite one, I flick the nipple harder than I should and she retaliates by pinching me on the arm hard enough to break the skin. There’s a little blood, but it’s the bruising that does it. Kissing it better after my complaints, she gets up and opens the window and the curtains move in a breeze that circulates around us.
The world is broken, and this wine tastes terrible, but when she sings her songs life feels like it’s worth living somehow. When she presses herself against me, her pubic hair’s so soft beneath my fingers, and when I slide them into her, she nestles her face in my smelly armpit and licks me like a cat. The sensation of her tongue on my skin is arousing, and even though I just wanted us to waste the day by doing nothing, now there’s a fire in me that can’t be put out. As naked as insects, I bite and suck her neck, and when she grabs my cock and gives me a handjob, I close my eyes and see a landscape by Hieronymus Bosch. The imagery tickles me. It pulls me in, and as she’s doing her thing, I’m running through a field containing a hundred nude bodies in the midst of some great orgy with a throng of baying animals that circle them in wild devotion. There are arrows shooting into skin, and pieces of fruit smeared over the bellies of young women that are then fed into the mouths of rabid foxes and goats. Everything vibrates, and the colours are so vivid they feel almost edible. Shaking my head, I push her onto her belly, and as the visions run wild and the nude bodies dance their dance, I grab her hair and do my best to pass them into her by filling her up with my stuff. When I’m on the verge of coming, I tense and grit my teeth and sink my fingers in the flesh of her buttocks, and when it’s time, when the light and the madness align, I shoot into her as if I were trying to pass through the eye of a needle. God’s needle.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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