Down he goes. Not hard, but with the unexpected grace of a tall building demolished by experts. The drug in his bloodstream smiles, using his muscles, his lips, pulling him on like a disguise, sleek and pretty.
Sometimes, he’s nothing but pain, but not now. Now he inhales deeply, and sighs aloud, as if launching a lifeboat out onto calm seas, unrequired, as if to say, ‘See? You doubted in vain. Rescue was always at hand.’
Days like these, he’s torn between the urge to dismember himself in disgust and fuck anything that moves. For just an hour’s reprieve, a trip down memory lane to a time when everything was oiled precision. When the meat cloak enfolding him didn’t constantly remind him of the battles he’s fought in it, didn’t accuse him, daily, of its callous misuse at his hands.
I know how good the drug feels. I know that bliss, the tongues that race along the sinews, outward from the core, enveloping each muscle, each tendon, in a warmth and peace so sweet and deep it demands its rewards in gratitude’s tears. Watching it take him, I sigh and melt in sympathy.
In that sublime embrace, fucking seems like a formality to be dispensed with among intimates. Something to be toyed with on the tip of the mind’s tongue, smiled at, and filed away for some other day, when sedation is less readily at hand, and the pain returns and distraction is required.