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The marks on her body were so attractive you missed the pleasure of seeing them made. She was still in the manner of skittering on him, letting him be an owl on her sphincter when the orgasm waved. They were a kind of halo underneath the snake, of it and brought whereby, partaking, but able to isolate each other. They liked being watched while producing partly chilled fluids. Not to be outdone, and equally afflicted, her husband took to murder, not by technical skill, but by his veracity and aesthetic valuing of the act. He pictured harming vertebrates so regularly he was already an expert. She reserved hate for herself and those who bothered gestating her. His apologies were the prime occurrence between them. The last thing a girl wants to be in a relationship is liked. Then she’d have to chafe wearing you. But I’m upright silken, he said. I’m shy as skim milk. She went to the bathroom for him. He rested in wonder between her knees, slowed her hand over the dabbing paper. She dotted and he used it to chloroform himself. I wanna fuck your first and middle names exchanged. I’ve read enough books to lose all my meaning. She rubbed her saliva in. He was eternally examining her with the reverence of a fifteen year old. She nodded on him till he got acrid. He towed benign spasms from her spot. They drifted against the fridge, bracketed with takeout. Her bust had chicken skin, nipples defined by manufactured freeze. Every time he came another twin got roosted in her. She liked allowing this to work and wondered how long she might continue allowing anything. If their children pointed at her coming out, she would stay.

He brought a skinned rabbit up by its ears and into boiling water. He had no clue if this method was pertinent or sanitary. The concept felt robust. He preferred what they ate to have the eyes still in. The skin became so clouded and mushy it was like swallowing how good she looked without enterprise. She saw how important it was for him to feed her, that he had lost his way being no longer able to hand her a menu. She selected gracefully as her curvature. It used to be how she paid him back. Such the chancre of the wed, to find their waiter.

Her husband spoke obsessively of his body and the many superficial perturbations he was shocked to have at merely thirty. The uninterrupted and untreatable piles, the tenacious ringworm scored about a steadily dribbling penis doctors had promised was uninfected, slapping down useless and expensive creams and antibiotics that exacerbated the issue, the patchy skin rubbing off wherever water landed, the uncanny pain pinballing between kidneys and prostate, the sprained muscles from yawning, the staggering dendrites, the teeth that would splinter if he chewed anything, mouth ordinarily full of blood, the technologically profound and roving tinnitus, the teetering between constipation and diarrhea in defiance of diet, two full rolls of toilet paper to efficiently clean the area, the frayed nerves causing random physical panic attacks, nothing to do with any current incident, as if real worse malfunctions were demandingly afoot, so he had to stop thinking to breathe, had to audition his breath. One day an ear stopped working. He commanded his body to transact or upend. When he blew his nose, his balls inflated. It was a daily impersonation of how she felt about him, this limbic crack war, and he blamed her because whenever she recapitulated he either blocked his maladies out or they went away for certain. If he took up a habit, or found entertainment, the machinery involved would break. His car surrendered any possible savings. He was irrevocably trapped behind these problems and they would only take on age.

She was absolved of shelter, thus hydra-headed Voltron manipulations to accumulate a passable male from the many cooping her less proportionate than their individual grotesqueries weren’t necessarily exploited by the batch in order to create a self-custodial rift from that gender’s girdling need. Everything she did with just one man was to oblige him, because he alone could never be expelled from her disappointment at any consecrated labor, this vanity for the perfection of her libido, his single incidental talent she invariably consoled against her will. Everyone outright healthy seemed to demand a home from their more acclimated boy. A bed had never been an issue for her and was certainly not reliant upon any partner. Still, she bricked her guys into a diminishingly tangible support system. A platter of them would suffice in transition. She bestowed injunctions on each pause to insist the act was futile, because it conclusively had been, up to now, unimproved by any level of orgasm. The orgasm itself was an exclusionary adventure. She came delinquent of her lover’s versatility and often in spite of it. It was a trial, obscuring the practicality of what whoever assumed would work so she could focus on a corner of her mind to hush the invasion of someone other. She had only ever been taught to feel probed. No pennyante psychological harvesting would reverse this, especially if she profited from sham gallantries dressing up like love. How vital it was to prolong her Rubik’s Cube sexuality became counterbalanced by the unprovoked denial of the kinder traits she truly, disastrously possessed. When her husband troubleshot her mood to rut his way deeper into an unachievable closeness, the room went transitory with policed neuroses. They should appoint each other the world’s exception, he insisted. Whoever might sate her simultaneous whims was the phantom he coerced himself to be beneath the sheets. The dilemma was usually anyone’s Herculean efforts classified how pedestrian they really were, or she’d call them that anyway, even if they secretly found success. Success was not forthcoming, particularly if it was, because male sexual success meant female vulnerability. But as soon as the roofs were gone she let herself be made to idiotically come and the others were too afraid to point. Now she’d squirt the positive elements of every tryst down through one and it didn’t matter how boringly alpha he was or how defectively sensitive, or the money in between those categories, or the paranoia of objects once perceived.

She let her chaperon supervene if the episode mocked itself appropriately. Funny to watch her body laid on from wherever she went during. The fungal sweat of various men had fouled the skin of her torso, as if their shadows had skimped over partway, too lazy to climb back off. She was cruel to her person after that. Unknown soups ensued. She self-injured in an act of rage meant to seem promised for the falsely accused, effectively silencing her husband’s suspicions. When she granted him rare access, he gorged an immediate come due to deprivation while she conjured blueprints for the crane that would lift him from her. She occasionally participated by using him to masturbate, mumbled shut up and moved him in accordance with her hand. She did this to everyone, actually, probably because of some minor but untreated venereal bacteria which had grown to keep her semi-impotent. He carried her to preserve her childlike feet. She was sick of having her gravity explained. She geared the line toward the peninsula without thinking. Everyone would follow her anyway, that’s why she despised a map. They didn’t need maps. Anything on you can spread. She incorporated people’s rashes. They’d paint her alive for a day and happily disappear. She made a sound when she came like she didn’t want it to happen, but that it was ultimately happening, despite everyone’s efforts.

Her husband had taken her away from the streets with so much dour support she missed the streets. I used to be too kind to be hired. He had been screwing her dresser piecemeal in a way she could feel against her body in the fabrics. He unrolled the drapes in her, could climb into her mouth with that much light. The pussy pulse stars timelessness. A Pentecostal soy you shut your peepers in. I feel such the Picasso, she cooed at a procession of heads. Balder still and yours.

This is an excerpt is from the novel Sucker June from Lazy Fascist Press. Buy it here.