About Last Night...

You are him. Whether or not you think you are, from this point on…you are him.

And you are not alone. There is a woman with you.

“It’s a strange night out there,” she says to you. Her long fingers run through your hair. A gentle summer breeze flickers the candles on the table. Despite her calm façade you know underneath she is a ball of anxiety. She has no patience for the pre-game. She has an agenda, a laundry list of things to accomplish, and you’re just another item to be crossed off.

Tenderness gives way to frustration as her impatience with you grows. She casts off her dress in a motion so elegant and efficient it feels rehearsed. You feel her wet tongue lick the length of that valley that runs up your spine and stops at your C4, and with that lick she senses the entrance.

You jerk away when she touches you there. Not violently like a hornet landing on your elbow, it’s a mild reaction, like a doctor tapping your knee to test Patellar reflex

It’s subconscious, but she thinks it cowardly. To her this is simply one more indicator that chivalry is dead. That we live in an age of overly sensitive men, and liberated, apathetic, woman who scorn the existence of their fatherless sons.


Her ability to seek out and penetrate the entrance is unparalleled. She sees all things with clarity. When she looks in the mirror she perceives more then a sad byproduct of a soul rotting consumer culture. She sees the reflection of a simian seductress evolved 2.5 million years to perfection. You see, she believes she’s flawless.

She casts aside her frustration; pre-game is over. She’s behind you now, and giggles as she grabs your hips and forces you back into position. Stomach down, head to the left. You can feel her skin against your back.

She positions her knees on either side of your hips. With your face planted in the bedding, your right cheek bares the brunt her torso’s weight on top of you. You see her move out of the corner of your eye, she plants a kiss on your left cheek, which you find stimulating. Though, you realize, a kiss from those lips is like a dog urinating to mark territory. She's claimed you as hers.

Without arms or legs it’s impossible to resist. She's toying with you. You feel her torso glide over your back, outside your field of vision. Her head comes to rest on your right shoulder, you feel her breath against your neck. With the entrance exposed, you don’t trust her outside your view. Thus, you bury your forehead into the bedding, arch your back with all your strength, and quickly roll your head so you face the right.

Your eyes meet just for a moment, then she smiles and playfully disappears back to the left side of you. As she crosses over your back you feel her breasts skitter across the tips of your shoulder blades.

You’re that beached whale and her an agile pigeon that moves in elegant leaps and bounds. Despite this, you take a deep breath and roll your head once again to keep her in view, but you are too late. She is already on the opposite side of you, with a gentle breath gliding over the contours of your shoulders. It rolls upward, over the lobe of your ear, and finds its way to that place where it spreads down the coastline of your spine in a wave of shivers.

You give up, because you know you’ve been beaten. And at that very moment, just when you’ve come to terms with the hopelessness of your situation, is when she slips inside you, stepping in one foot at a time.

Your torsos align concentrically, as she fidgets and shifts her entire body to her liking. You do not speak, nor could you if you tried. It’s not painful, as you suspected it would be, it’s just awkward. Once she's in, you feel the entrance seal up behind her.

There are strange moments, as you breathe out, and your stomach collapses, just as she breathes in and her lungs expand from within you. As this happens you feel her stomach pressed snuggly against yours, making it difficult as you struggle to once again fill your lungs with air.

At first she draws her satisfaction simply from being inside you. But she quickly grows bored of this. She squirms and wiggles about. She stretches, pushes and pulls. Eventually your flesh expands and slides around her like a pair of silky tights contorting to long shapely legs.

Hands and elbows begin to take shape where previously none existed. At first they appear as webbed flippers. Ping pong paddles of semi transparent skin, a veiny membrane stretching between vague indications fingers.

She wants to stretch, simply to release the tension in her muscles. When she finally does it’s a long cat like yoga stretch. This is the first and only time you feel pain, but once complete you realize that you, as her second skin, are now wrapped tightly around her shoulders, breasts, knees, even those tiny spaces between her fingers.

You can feel the full width of her womanly hips, those hips that give her body those sensuous curves. Dipping in and out to define her classically beautiful figure. You feel her pelvic bone rubbing against you. But it’s strange, as this is not an external sensation, but an internal one.

She begins to slide her head out through your mouth. Like a moth from a cocoon her head slowly emerges. You attempt to keep your mouth closed to prevent her escape, but it’s futile. She is too much for you.

At first, her dark hair is pulled tight against your lips, forcing them to expand like rubber bands so they can fit the circumference of her brow. Your lower lip slides down over her forehead revealing long dark lashes above closed eyes. As the bridge of her nose comes into view, lids open to reveal olive green eyes.

As she emerges, your eyes and nose sag backward, forcing you to look upward. There you see yourself in a mirror mounted above her bed. Her head appears as an enormous black oval emerging from your lips.

She tilts her head downward, which pulls, then releases her shoulder length hair from the tourniquet of your lips. Her curly hair contracts with a snap then settles back into its natural position. It falls gently over your face, cast over your eyes; you can only see vague blooms of light through the canopy of her hair. You imagine your self as a child looking up at the sky through a forest of trees.

Eventually her head is entirely exposed and your lips wrap tightly around the base of her throat. Your nose angles upward, towards the nape of her neck. As you exhale through your nostrils it rolls over the delicate silk that marks the edge of her hairline. She trembles.

With her mouth now fully exposed, a sensuous grin rolls across her face, and she releases a gentle sigh of ecstasy. “You see,” she says, “now it’s you sending shivers down my spine.”

Your tongue is pinned tightly against her throat. You can taste her. She is aroused, you are too. She rolls her neck around to explore her freedom of movement, causing her hair to gently dance across your nose. You sneeze and her hair fluffs into the air. Eventually it falls back into place, and after a short time you sneeze again. And with each sneeze, the air shoots from your lungs and your muscles contract tightly against her, adjusting the fit to perfection.

Soon you stop sneezing. And she’s no longer a woman, and you’re no longer a man. Eventually your lips no longer wrap around her neck, and your face ceases to sag back over her spine.

Together you sit on her deck and watch the sun rise over the building tops of Brooklyn. Sipping Chamomile tea, as you debate a matinee at IFC center and a walk through Prospect park.