Le Petite Mort

“Young man, you will die of this company,” I said to him, upon our first meeting. A foreboding prediction, an inauspicious pronouncement for a first meeting, no doubt, but what I failed to mention (silly me) was that the death he would suffer would be only a little death. And I was more than happy to kill him over and over again, night after day after night. A swift, rough shoving into his young, tight ass, pumping and teasing his firm prick to wave upon wave of tortured, screaming, blinding release time after time. In my arms and others’, he died a little more each day, as did I, but what neither of us knew—what neither of us could know—was that all of this dying would one day kill us. Still unheeding, we ran headlong into the future, without thought for morals, commitments, safety or sense, the only thought in our heads for our next demise. My favorite addiction, he followed me to the bowels of Hell on Earth, and when, finally, I killed him in truth, in the most fecal of all the shit-infested gutters, I died as well. And this death was not little at all.