bell, until my knuckles brushed the frilling of his genitals, which, like mistletoe, seemed far too folksy to award me so much latitude.
“He doesn’t know very much,” said Alfonse’s usual if slightly muffled voice. “Why, what did that creep say?”
“I find myself wondering,” I said, “if there are manga lovers like yourself whose fondest wish is not to wind up thin enough to mark a book but rather torn or hacked into pieces small enough to slide down someone’s throat.”
Alfonse peeked at me above the blotchy towel. His looks had reconnected with their faculties and basic shapes, and Plank’s poker face was largely an unhealthy color. “You’re speaking of Guro,” he said. “An interesting subgenre, though a bit macho for me.”
“Do these Guro lovers fraternize with your more genial contingent,” I asked.
“We do socialize, or, rather, their avatars have been known to sneak within our sites without detection,” he said. “However, their foul mouths cause them to be blocked in almost every case.”
“It must so frustrate them, and you as well, to undertake such absolutist missions,” I said. “Consider this painstaking mock-up of your bedroom, which so clearly forms a homonym for François’s useless dream of sharing it with you.”
I should mention that, by then, I’d started masturbating Alfonse, which, given the costume’s bottlenecking, was surely more impressive as a juggling act.
“Perhaps you feel as I do that birthdays come with certain privileges,” Alfonse said. “The truth is sex, although that term seems so uncivil, intrigues me. When I’ve been given any say, I always ask my . . . partners, as you call them, to rest on top of me. Since they’ve weighed far more than I thus far, there is the side effect of feeling squished, which you know I rather covet.
“For that reason, I see beds, or floors, assuming they are clean, as the earthly likenesses of manga pages in which I’m merely ink or pixels and my partner is a rather heavy-handed draughtsman. Plus, the more unreal I’ve found myself, the better the . . . sex has been for everyone involved, if, that is, I even vaguely understand what gets men off, which is to say François is cleared to join us, should you agree.”
“My issue with sex,” I said, “or the first of many—and I too speak that catchword grudgingly—is the transience of its effect. To think that afterward, you’ll reinflate, and I will only have crossed incest off a wish list I hadn’t yet compiled. If only you, no, we could stay, oh, razor-thin in your case and unrealistically wild-mannered in mine.”
“Clearly, if I could stay unreal with any permanence, I would,” he said. “I haven’t imitated you for years because I find your affects therapeutic.”
With that, he started patting down the Flatso costume’s image of a shirt and scratching at its painted buttons. Seeing his futility, I freed my arm, then, gripping the “shirt’s” collar, tried to rip Plank into shreds.
“You didn’t keep a pair of scissors handy that François might have reproduced,” I asked.
It was then the words “Velcro straps,” spoken with a lechery that neither one of us had any feel for, broke into our conversation.
Of course, the speaker was François, who, quite naturally, had been lurking in the dark, but perhaps because my eyes were so bedazzled by our spotlights, his voice seemed less substantial than the sawing of a cricket’s legs.
There is in fact another explanation for its wisp, but I will let you discover it, if you do, at the same time and manner as I did, if I ever fully have.
Once the Velcro bindings were unlocked, the costume sledded up and past my brother’s head with only the subtlest misplacing of his hair.
I sought an unobtrusive spot to dump the Flatso’s corpse, ultimately leaning it against a wall. By the time I turned my full attention to Alfonse, he’d lain facedown upon the futon and struck a pose that seemed
“He doesn’t know very much,” said Alfonse’s usual if slightly muffled voice. “Why, what did that creep say?”
“I find myself wondering,” I said, “if there are manga lovers like yourself whose fondest wish is not to wind up thin enough to mark a book but rather torn or hacked into pieces small enough to slide down someone’s throat.”
Alfonse peeked at me above the blotchy towel. His looks had reconnected with their faculties and basic shapes, and Plank’s poker face was largely an unhealthy color. “You’re speaking of Guro,” he said. “An interesting subgenre, though a bit macho for me.”
“Do these Guro lovers fraternize with your more genial contingent,” I asked.
“We do socialize, or, rather, their avatars have been known to sneak within our sites without detection,” he said. “However, their foul mouths cause them to be blocked in almost every case.”
“It must so frustrate them, and you as well, to undertake such absolutist missions,” I said. “Consider this painstaking mock-up of your bedroom, which so clearly forms a homonym for François’s useless dream of sharing it with you.”
I should mention that, by then, I’d started masturbating Alfonse, which, given the costume’s bottlenecking, was surely more impressive as a juggling act.
“Perhaps you feel as I do that birthdays come with certain privileges,” Alfonse said. “The truth is sex, although that term seems so uncivil, intrigues me. When I’ve been given any say, I always ask my . . . partners, as you call them, to rest on top of me. Since they’ve weighed far more than I thus far, there is the side effect of feeling squished, which you know I rather covet.
“For that reason, I see beds, or floors, assuming they are clean, as the earthly likenesses of manga pages in which I’m merely ink or pixels and my partner is a rather heavy-handed draughtsman. Plus, the more unreal I’ve found myself, the better the . . . sex has been for everyone involved, if, that is, I even vaguely understand what gets men off, which is to say François is cleared to join us, should you agree.”
“My issue with sex,” I said, “or the first of many—and I too speak that catchword grudgingly—is the transience of its effect. To think that afterward, you’ll reinflate, and I will only have crossed incest off a wish list I hadn’t yet compiled. If only you, no, we could stay, oh, razor-thin in your case and unrealistically wild-mannered in mine.”
“Clearly, if I could stay unreal with any permanence, I would,” he said. “I haven’t imitated you for years because I find your affects therapeutic.”
With that, he started patting down the Flatso costume’s image of a shirt and scratching at its painted buttons. Seeing his futility, I freed my arm, then, gripping the “shirt’s” collar, tried to rip Plank into shreds.
“You didn’t keep a pair of scissors handy that François might have reproduced,” I asked.
It was then the words “Velcro straps,” spoken with a lechery that neither one of us had any feel for, broke into our conversation.
Of course, the speaker was François, who, quite naturally, had been lurking in the dark, but perhaps because my eyes were so bedazzled by our spotlights, his voice seemed less substantial than the sawing of a cricket’s legs.
There is in fact another explanation for its wisp, but I will let you discover it, if you do, at the same time and manner as I did, if I ever fully have.
Once the Velcro bindings were unlocked, the costume sledded up and past my brother’s head with only the subtlest misplacing of his hair.
I sought an unobtrusive spot to dump the Flatso’s corpse, ultimately leaning it against a wall. By the time I turned my full attention to Alfonse, he’d lain facedown upon the futon and struck a pose that seemed
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