copyright © 2002 Brian E. Rochlin


by Brian E. Rochlin

OK, this was weird. Once when I was fucking the eye socket of this skull, and not just any skull, because that would be gross, but the skull of this woman I’d killed, an ex lover, who’d never been any good in the sack. I mean, she fucked like a landed sea bass. Twist and flop, and gasp for air. So not just any skull, I mean, if I’m going bone some bones, I’m going to earn it. And between the six weeks we dated and the fact I wasted the bitch, I’d say this was my fucking skull. No pun intended.

So I’m fucking this eye socket, the left eye socket, when... You know, it’s funny, because her left eye was this gorgeous pale blue, and a little lazy. It never quite focused in...never quite really looked at me the way someone should be paying attention to you when you’re talking. But it was incredibly cute the way that happened. That laziness. Only when we fucked, it wasn’t lazy at all. When she was coming, it would just zip all over the place. I mean, like crazy. Really crazy. North, South, East, West. It even rolled all the way around once, like Linda Blair’s Exoricist head. I really loved that eye. More than her right eye, which was just kind of grey...and plain...and a little nearsighted.

So I guess you could that I was making love to the socket of the skull that used to house the really adorable eye of my ex-girlfriend. And her head was just the most perfect shape. I mean–not necessarily to fuck...although that too–but just to look at. It was flawless. No rigid bumps, no concave shit, just pure curves and lines...a differential calculus dream shape. You just can’t believe how flawless. A phrenologist–which if you don’t know is a person who can tell your character and future by reading the bumps on your head (it’s true, I swear it)–a phrenologist would have had to refund my ex-girlfriend’s money because there weren’t any bumps.

Now, granted this chick did not know how to fuck, and she wasn’t much on the B.J. action either. Too much teeth, no tongue, and just an up-and-down motion, like a weak and tired piston. You could tell that it wasn’t something she really liked, but she was trying to please me because I’d gone down on her for hours, because, well for lots of reasons. She tasted AMAZING, this clean new rain taste. And because I liked making her happy. And sure some of it was ego, like "Watch how many times I can make you come, bitch." But some of it was that pure, unselfish pleasure you get when you know someone else is happy and satisfied and just feels that damn good.

So I guess she was trying to reciprocate, you know. But her blow jobs were weak, I mean real I described. And still I loved it when she went down on me because, well, because I liked holding onto that perfect skull of hers.

So now, I’m holding onto that perfect skull of hers again, and making love to this eye socket which is the perfect size for the knob of my dick and remembering the pale blueness of her lazy eye and her trying to be so kind with this weak blow job and the clean taste of new rain and this story she told me about her first puppy. It’s just the cutest story. And I’m thinking about all the other stories, of how she used to raise chinchillas, I mean chinchillas of all things. Of the vacation she took to Greece all by herself, and how she seduced this Grecian god with too much ouzo, in the late afternoon shadow of the Aparthenon and how’d they’d spent the rest of the week skinny dipping and making love in the Aegean. Stories of college and family and work and the great books she’d read and how much she simultaneously loved and hated the blooming of the jacaranda trees every year–their intense purples and the mess they’d make falling onto her Volkswagon. I’m thinking about how we first met and how cute and shy she’d been around me, and how, like–as only sometimes happens–I’d known by just the way she’d played with her hair that she liked me. I’m thinking of one particular evening when we had the best smoked Cornish hens at this hole in the wall restaurant and went to see this god-awful folk singer and just laughed and laughed and laughed.

And then the weirdest thing happened. Right then. Right then when I was fucking her skull, the weirdest thing happened.

I started to have regrets. I mean, this is just strange for me, because as a raging sociopath, I– don’t– have– regrets.

I just don’t.

I don’t really feel anything. I like to pretend I do, but I don’t.

And now, this one time, I’m fucking her skull (and this is not the first time I’ve ever skull fucked) and I’m starting to have regrets. Real regrets. I mean, maybe, just maybe, she was THE ONE.

I came anyway. But that was just weird. The regrets thing. I think they were regrets. Maybe not. You know?

© 2002, Brian E. Rochlin

draft October 26, 2002


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