But a Big Dream Ch. 02

Then they fucked in the manner of industrial equipment.

The neighbors had to be mollified.

The sofa, which was new, had to be replaced.

Given she was on the pill, and anal, there was no danger of pregnancy, but there was born that night an idea, an idea which matured into a preoccupation, which went through puberty and became an obsession, which graduated into an unrelenting fever.

Art wanted to fuck her with Fitz.

This creation (which Chi, of course, had mothered as sure as any offspring) made its self known in suggestive jokes, interesting guest invitations, and subtle references, like when Art said, "I'd like to fuck you with Fitz."

Zeus thought this was an absolutely brilliant idea, and immediately started drafting blueprints that demonstrated the exponentially increased possibilities that result from adding a third person to coition.

"Assuming the blessed event takes place in the borough, I named this one 'the Brooklyn Bridge' in honor." He'd slapped his schematic against a window.

"I count seven legs."

"That's no leg."

"Fitz would appreciate that vote of confidence."

He threw up another plan, this one involving a series of pulleys. "You picked him."

"I did not. All Art's idea."

"I'm sorry, do I look like the type completely unaccustomed to and thus vulnerable to your bullshit? Do I look like that fucktard?" He pointed at Art, who was drooling into his pillow, bare pale ass procumbent, snoring.

"Don't call him that."

"Hey, don't get me wrong—I like him. We may go out sarging together later; he might even be able to teach me something. But don't change the subject. You deliberately planted a lascivious image in soil you knew to be quite fertile—oh, and that was a nice little touch pretending not to know his name. And then just to make sure that little notion bore fruit, you played coy in a most irresistible fashion. Now, do I have analysis of your libido down to a science or what?"

"I'm honestly not sure."

He gave a skeptical grunt, stood there tapping his foot, waiting for her to admit he was right, but eventually couldn't resist moving on and showing her "The Holland Tunnel," an arrangement that resembled roasting a suckling pig. Two of the participants had smiley faces, and the third probably would have as well, had she been able.

She'd had an organic chem text cracked open between her legs, which made her think on those days long ago in her parent's house when Zeus had first appeared. She liked to think there was more to life than this: studies and fuck fantasies. And as far as that went, the latest diagram, the accurately titled "Meat-Packing District," seemed workable even with one partner. She gave Art a poke, then another, and he rolled over and went back to snoring.

"Chiasa, light of my life, if you're looking for action, I've got fifteen minutes before I have to be back in Athens. We've got a football game against the giants."

She observed the resting organ of her lover, the reddish patch of tinsel above it, it and its owner at peace, dreaming dreams she honestly was a little scared to contemplate.

"Thanks, my love, but I'm going to try my luck with the fucktard."

"Your loss. You want to see 'the Trump Tower' before I go?"

"I'm not into scat."

"Fair enough." He blew her a kiss, then went out onto the balcony, opened an umbrella, took a step off and plummeted out of sight, yelling about how Julie Andrews always made it look so fucking easy.

She poked Art again, this time right up under the rib, with no effect. She blew into his ear, tickled his feet, picked a gold nugget out of his nose. He made a clumsy slap, but didn't open his eyes.

Now she wasn't even horny, but fascinated with the possibilities for experimentation. Slamming an organic chemistry text. Subject produces increased stertor. Sustained pinch of the left buttock. Subject farts. Inhalation of a two point one inch line of coke off of the subject's flaccid shaft results in short-lived euphoria, but subject remains in REM.

So she put his dick in her mouth.

Effect: subject awakes.

Does he ever.

During the following twenty minutes, they wreaked destruction from the bedspread, across the bedside table, on the desk chair, against the desk chair, and then on the desk itself (there was a pen jabbing her tuchus, and the blotter and she were moving in unison across the mahogany), followed by a series of flips of her entire body which Art accomplished with the miraculous strength usually reserved for mothers saving their children, ending with her nipples squashed against the wood, two of his fingers in her mouth like a bit, him jackhammering her until she came with a run-on scream of profanity that exhausted the English wordstock and plunged into her Mandarin reserves and finally a few Japanese swears she'd heard her father utter while she was a child and he was battling the backyard gophers. She finally dropped her face into the puddle of her own saliva and lay quivering like a shot animal, with Art passing the finish line moments later, marked for her by the impact on her lower back of a slug of cum, then another that amazingly reached her occipital bone and remained matted there like a hot piece of gum.

"Just... fucking... love you," he said, spinning around drunkenly and collapsing again on the bed. The snoring resumed shortly thereafter.

She opened her mouth, but, as usual, closed it without saying anything. She didn't mind texting a little "Love ya" from time to time, but it caught in her throat. And her fucktard boyfriend didn't care either way, so far as she could tell. She gave his ass a slap as she headed for the shower.

"So," he said the next morning, eating Frosted Flakes with a ladle, "when Fitz and I fuck you, does that mean I get to fuck his girlfriend with him? Just as a matter of etiquette?"

"Do you even like Fitz?" she asked.

"I do not. I do not like him at all. He makes more money than me, he gave The Last Jedi 'six out of five' stars, and his hair is fucking amazing, isn't it?"

"Sweet European Jesus, it looks like artisanal chocolate being blended. Bet it smells like almond butter." She cracked a few eggs into the pan, plucked out an offending shell.

"It does," Art said.

"Arthur."

"Uh oh."

"Do you think they'll be able to get the series back on track in the third movie?"

He spewed cereal. "Back on track? Back on track? They couldn't revive the series if it was Carrie Fischer floating through fucking space using her Jedi pixie dust! Remember when Luke died... FOR NO FUCKING REASON?"

"That's how they learned that there had to be a back exit to the cave. Remember the bling antelope?"

"THEN WHY DIDN'T HE JUST TELL THEM THERE WAS A BACK EXIT TO THE CAVE?"

"Have some fucking bacon."

"I'm going to eat some fucking bacon! What were we talking about?"

"Think they'll re-right that ship?"

"Not a chance in hell!" he said through a mouth of pig.

She kissed his forehead as she slipped into his lap. "I agree. And there's still more chance of that than a devil's threeway with you and Fitz."

"Babe, really?"

"Yeah."

"Like, for real? Or is this just to lull me into a sense of complacency, while you artfully plan a surprise for my birthday?"

"Well, if I was planning that surprise for your birthday, this is how I'd lull you into a sense of complacency. But I'm not doing that. It's not going to happen."

"Huh."

"Yeah. I just know you have a lot of energy, and I'd like you to channel it into something productive."

"Ok."

"You could write Star Wars fanfic."

"I'm not a fucking nerd. Wait—when did you see that movie?"

"I read the Wikipedia summary. Sounds lame. Was there really a kangaroo chase?"

"I don't know, I slept through a lot. I think Benicio del Toro had a cameo."

"So we're good?"

"Babe," he said, and he jumped up with her in his arms, "of course. I was just kidding the whole time. Hahaha!"

"No, you weren't."

"No, I wasn't. Anyway, let me tell me about this dream I had about you last night."

"It involve your desk?"

"It did involve my desk. Let me demonstrate."

She found herself being carefully carried back to the bedroom. There were times he threw her around like a sack of tubers, but now she felt like the most precious piece of cargo ever shipped.

"I love you," she said.

"I know," he said.

She was laid on the silk sheets of the bed she had just made.

"Get it?" he said. "Like Empire?"

"I haven't seen it."

"Fuck you! We're watching that tonight! Fuck you! In fact, we're watching it right now."

She cupped his scrotum and looked up quizzically.

"We'll watch it later," he said.

Afterwards, effect: subject says, "I love you, too."

The sun was getting impertinent, and if one more passing guy offered to apply lotion she'd throw a sinker at his face. So she called it a morning. One of her thousand.

Arthur: Joke's on you! Finished on your pumps.

There was a picture.

Chiasa: Joke's on you, dipshit. Those aren't mine.

Arthur: Fuck.

Christ, she missed him.