Tonight to be the last of their assignations, each of which would satisfy thrice per lunation: sessions of sex slow and dry, despite any lubrication — and they’d tried them all to rashes, allergies, itch, once’d even made their own out of PopPop’s liposucked fat — unabashedly analytical, measured in how hot (tush temp.) and dry, their orgasms later noted in a leather ledger Arschstrong keeps in the kitchen in the drawer along with the pen and the knives, though they engage themselves down the hall in the bedroom, sunk amid hazards of splintered wood packingcrates, looseflapped cardboard boxes, scuffed suitcases and trunks, socks swallowing socks, balled into bulges, tight and dark wads stuffed to puff used underwear scattered sexually negligent, with talcum powder just everywhere, a dusting of weatherform white dirtied with dust, as if neglect purified; as they’re switching positions from the favored Thrombosed Mosquito to the exceedingly advanced Reciprocal Six Handled Spoon, Arschstrong spurting a last helping of glide onto the rub of his lambskin, Pop-Pop asks he can’t help it:
You’re leaving me, why?
I’ll kill myself, it’s something I said, something I did — Benjamin, He’s only temporary.
Relax, says Arschstrong touching a shaky finger to the head of his lover, I’m only moving across the hall. You remember the Golden-Schlitzpickels, they died, you know, like so many, too young, it’s a sin, and with an oceanview…
Theirs is three times the size!
So is mine, Arschstrong says as he enters.
Dead of night arrives, that inviolate guest, unseen, unheard, leaves like stealing, having pocketed the clock. Balls fall, inexorably. They lean on one another, sucking each other’s shvitz, gasp air recirculated, the soul of the ducts. Then, as if variety’s been made mandatory to pleasure, they retire their silence to what Arschstrong’s always called his Florida Room, in an apartment in which all the rooms are actually, technically, Florida Rooms, there to admire the haze of their engaged reflection in the glass that is the furthest wall, which would slide open on its greasy track to reveal just past the patio used for storage only — skyline, frozen. What a view, away from the ocean, toward the parkinglot, plow and corpse, the weeping palms of Babylon, the street that whites west toward the highway. Miami sobered this New Year, unforgiving of revelry, left corkless, without bubble; there are no lights from up here that aren’t sirens, the lingery grope of emergency pulse; the balloon of the moon resoundingly popped, by the darkness.
