Spit You Out

-Spit You Out-
by
Keaton Foster

“Sex Turned Control.”

In my mouth, serious all doubt, spit you out. You are the brave one and I alone am the fool. We met by chance, and such chance has many meanings. Nuances. Things always happen, alter, thus probability is easily turned onto its head. What’s up is down and what’s down is up. What’s right is seen in an increasingly neutral light. Fitting square pegs into round holes gets easier with spit. Driving straight, headlong, is always quicker compared to backing up.

So many times have we danced. Our torrid romance, like a wildfire burning. Between us, there has never been much fuel because few things around us are flammable. But what we did have to ignite, oh, thy God above, did we ever create an inferno. We, you and I, have never been much for words. Heavy petting quickly escalates. My raspy tongue is poison. Your soft lips are venomous. Two deadly toxins, somehow canceling each other out.

I wish there could be more and for a time there might have been. Do you remember when, my truly loveless fiend of a friend, that I told you that deeply I loved you? It was, of course, an outright lie that I alone became caught up in. Further I tried and of course failed because for us, it has and always will be about this. And exactly what this is, is not as it always appears to be. No, that would all be too easy.

The storyteller that is in me will not beat around any bush. I will go headlong into this tale and I will leave nothing for others to decide. I will make it x-rated and then I will bash them over the head with it. All to ensure that they understand what is really behind all that we do. I will make them feel each detail. I will make them beg for just a little more of what we share. No doubt would their hearts quicken, and their breathing will become resistive.

For a time I just wanted to get by. I needed to sucker someone, you to be exact. I needed you to meet all of my twisted needs, and indeed there are so many. But of course, I thought I was messed up until I met the likes of you. If I am a former choir boy standing outside the church, then you are an excommunicated nun with a can of gas and a lighter in hand.

Please don’t assume any issue; this is not, nor has ever been, about sex. This, a form of control, absolute power over life and dare it even be said, death. In my mouth, serious all doubt, spit you out. You are the brave one and I alone am the fool. Copulation never ends what you and I have begun. It just indicates a time for a changing of the guards. A swapping of positions. The scale of power must be ever so slightly tilted. Fellatio on steroids.

At some point, way beyond now, I’m sure that such simple pleasures will no longer suffice. You will grow raw and numb, and I will become impotent. What drives us mad for both ourselves and each other will forever fade away and we will be left searching for what’s next. Depravity for satisfaction's sake.

Again and again, this is about everything except foreplay and the main dish. This is a form of control. A power so close to the edge of both sense and reason. How wonderful it all is. Neither one of us has been able to speak. Silence breeds contentment. Refraining from reiterating leaves plenty of chance for other things.

Changing positions, both you and I are the victim and the victimizer. We have never stood any real chance, and despite the fact that we knew that, we still have done things that even those that have spent their entire lives together would find quite hard to swallow…




Spit You Out
Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2015.