I remember after we were living on opposite coasts and I’d had a bad day. I called you on Skype or the Google video thing or whatever. I really thought I might be fired by week’s end and you were so understanding and comforting. Whatever it was that we talked about after I finished my rant, I can’t remember, but I felt better about everything. It wasn’t just the Jim Beam, and it certainly wasn’t the useful professional advice you didn’t give me. It was the warmth you always had; the amazing motherly, hippie, Buddhist thing no one else on the planet has quite like you. Sometimes, when I would tell you all about how the entire world was up against me, you would make me feel like an infant sucking warm nutritious milk out of his mother’s breast. Mother’s milk for the beleaguered soul.
So, I felt good and in love, a little drunk and all the more perverted. You told me you had to pee and I demanded to watch. Earlier, you’d popped out a single boob with the wry comment “Feel better,” as if I could care. Tits are so blasé, but piss approaches the avant-garde. I have always loved the way a woman’s piss reveals her mysterious third hole; in some sense, that’s the best thing about piss. We all know about your sweet pussy, and even cowards know about assholes these days, but there’s another orifice there that never gets any attention, and that is a real societal ill. The best way of finding this often-ignored Holy Ghost of the female trinity is through piss.
You rolled your eyes but were a sweetheart about it. You dutifully took your computer with you, positioned it right, and spread your legs as much as possible so I could say “hi.” When I think back on it, I can remember what you were wearing until you start to pee…then immaterial things like clothes become totally abolished by the tidal wave of perverted thoughts that hit. Once I start to think about that piss coming out of you, what you were wearing steps one pace out of reach for my limited memory. I can almost remember, I remember being able to remember just a second ago, but it all fades to piss.
You noted the gleeful smile that came across my lips after your secret hole opened up and let her rip. I got hard and my sweet tasting pre-cum started dribbling out of my cock. After you finished, you waited awhile and spread your legs further than you could’ve gotten away with when all your beautiful piss was coming out of you. I think you might have been wearing thigh-highs, but that very well might just have been my mind’s revision. I sat on my shitty futon and stared, cock in my hands, and worshipping you for waiting to wipe and letting me see your perfectly shaven crotch drip with piss.
It was then that I hated living in the current year, hated the imperfection of video calls. I knew what was there, I knew what I was looking at, but the 21st century was mocking me with its blurry details. I remember thinking about how much better I’d been able to see those little droplets of piss come off of you in person. As I stared at your digitized, soiled snatch, I tried to subsidize the imperfections of my computer screen with my own memories of what it was like to see you drip-dry in person. Masturbating to something half-digital and half-recalled is not my favorite thing; but hell, now you are gone and all my masturbation is just recalled.
I didn’t say any of this as I stared into your toilet-riding crotch through the eyes of the Internet; that would have been unappreciative. Maybe you knew though…I guess I’ll never know. Anyway, the whole line of thought got interrupted when you slowly but surely wiped. I liked the way you looked doing it and I asked how it felt to be able to make boys like me envious of toilet paper. You giggled, stuck your tongue out a little, and put that toilet paper straight into your mouth.
“Now I’m jealous of your piss,” I said. My hand had been at the base of my cock this whole time, but that hand started rocking up and down at this point. You pulled the toilet paper away and let me see the little bits stuck to your tongue. It looked even better than usual with those little white polka dots on it. God, it was hot. With a mouth full of paper, you told me how ever since we moved away from one another, you cry a little bit every time you use toilet paper, because every time you do, you know it should be me instead. You told me how while I get jealous of toilet paper, you have bouts of ennui every time you use some. You put the paper you wiped with back in your mouth and my cum shot all over the place. I felt better and I loved you a lot.
***
“Avant-Garde” is an excerpt from Richard Power’s new memoir, Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.
Richard Power is the author of Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert, available from Terror House Press.
