from CAPGUN, issue 2

Day broke in the window again. The two teen heads didn’t want to leave pillows. Their pillows felt like sleepy eyes; their sleepy eyes felt like pillows. The heads were in soft dreams and understood that in between was the best situation. Ten more minutes seemed like an hour. An ice-cube that didn’t feel cold. Mirrors were videos. Everything coolly the same. There was a pretty layer of air; Philadelphia was a good name for a girl. Fuzz ball was laughing. The heads and the pillows kept realizing how they preferred each other to anything else. Any eyelid dare opened, traded comfort for facts.

One of the teens tried to kiss the other, but the closed-lip teen turned away. Eyelids closed, the pillow feeling, cold air from under the bed, plus hot light from the window. The mirror was a video-camera. The dad was stuck in the car. The pillow, hot light, and the kissing teen pushing his first erection of the day. The dream of the dad began to separate from the hot light. One eyelid opened. Deformed in a sneer, the teen head had a fleeting understanding of the long line of mornings preceding, and the longer line of ones to come.

Boner teen touched the teen body in a convincing way. The touched teen indulged this attempt, briefly lost track of facts. Back into covered eyes, the pillow pushed up its little ideas. To feel good was numbers. 72, 88, 81, 64. Then it seemed too big a fuss; the touched teen turned away. Kissing teen wanted to kiss, but to touched teen, a tongue was one enough in a mouth.

They woke with this early tag, touching and turning away. The morning shone on in, a peaceful, nagging normalcy, an anxiety that the day held nothing for them. Boner teen reached under the bed, bringing out a tube of something. He asked for touched teen to help, to see what happens if. Touched teen smirked, laughed, forgot the fear of morning. Touched teen extended a palm-up hand, pointer finger wiggling. The finger met for the first time, CVS brand lubricant. The finger flinched.

The bed held aging teens, their cell phones, their smelly socks. The roommate was away for a week. Bare balls on the chair. Each day, while boner teen fucked, the fucked teen scanned the spines lined in the roommate’s book shelf, met the longing gazes from the eyes on the roommate’s posters. The apartment was in an area recently swarmed by aging teens. At night they walked in groups of two and three, praying they were going to have fun. Their prayer was talking loudly, was laughing all at once, was ignoring the blinking hand signal and running wildly across the street.

While the other hand grabbed the smooth erection, the finger brushed aside squeamishness and pushed pointed towards the teen’s skinny butt, past rough hairs, not curly or straight, but kinked, frazzled. Through this swampy stretch, the finger found a bit of skin more like itself. The bit was both opened and closed. The finger moved in circles, wiping off the CVS brand lubricant. Boner teen became Butt teen in a gasp. His erection twitched. The finger pushed itself in, finding next to no room, a cat’s unwilling mouth. Pushing further forward, ignoring Butt Teen’s frenzy, the finger dug in, let out, dug in, pushed further, stubborn, like a drill. There was nowhere to go. Butt Teen’s heart jumped. The finger kept its dull push. There was no more room. There was just enough room. The finger didn’t care.

It felt like the finger was making fun of Butt Teen. The finger let itself be pushed out. It pushed back in. It hooked around. Butt teen made his noises. One hand running up the erection, while the finger squeezed in and out. The jabbing of the finger was like science lab, ‘what the hell.’ Nothing mattered. Butt teen gasped. Finger teen looked for some toilet paper, or a towel or something. There was only the underwear and the socks, the cell phones. Butt teen found a black t shirt balled beside the bed, came on the t-shirt, then gave it to giggling finger teen to wipe off the lubricant, plus anything else. The finger was sniffed, was washed in the sink over the unclean t-shirt, the t-shirt was so honest. Finger teen brushed teeth and spit toothpaste foam on the poor black t-shirt, but the shirt got grander with each complication. The morning was overthrown by the new place for finger. The aging teens grew older. Outside the apartment the strangers were continuing onward with life. Dogs were sniffing, shitting; ATM machines were pausing to print out receipts.