Trapezoid Blades — An Erotic Story

As I enter her, she squeezes her thighs together daring me to become a part of her life. I lower my chest onto her stiffened nipples. I lengthen my legs along the outside length of hers. She has given me more. Depth of canyon. Frisson and frottage. I squeeze.

You see, I take pride in my strength.

Mallery’s party had been drowning in redundancy. A living room filled with pot smoke was the end of it. We walked out into the cool breathing night of the canyon with the stream of the 101 sounding off in the distance.

I took her hand by the wrist and set it on my arm. Bicep and tricep to be exact. I wasn’t angry by the lack of touch. I was angry at the fact that no one makes an effort to try. To meet desire with desire. You see I take pride in my strength. I take pride in where my hands have been.

She smiled as she squeezed my muscle. She had the guts not to look me in the eyes. She didn’t know me well enough to do so yet.

I take pride in where my hands have been.

I’m sweating. She’s lies on her side in front of me. My face is flush with warm adrenalin flows. A river of brine that runs the length of my chest and back bleeds through my dirty white t-shirt. My breath is steady and measured. It’s also relentless because it has to be. At this moment, where can I go? I want none of it and I want all of it. I race with purpose. Transcending time Removing irrelevancies along the way. Leaving no margins for bullshit because I want her alive.

Friend, you do know It’s about death, right? There’s rutting and there’s death, see. So, we go hard. So hard. Racing to transcend time. Racing. Racing. Racing towards something. The mother dying. The pregnant mother dying. The cow dying at my feet. Sprawled on her side on fine grey dust of Jim Van Ruiten’s feedlot corral. Flies buzzing around in 110 degree heat. I blow cool air onto her right eye. Nature doesn’t blink as her eyes dull into a lifeless opacity. The mother now dying and dead

The death of one is not the death of another. Her death is easy in this sense. No margins for bullshit, remember. At this point, trapazoid blades are the best. Sharp. Small. Light. Easy to hold in your hand. Fold all your fingers into fist and pinch it between your index fingers and thumb. Like you would hold charcoal drawing a live nude. A nude with strong legs. Who knows how to love-squeeze. That’s all you need.

Until all you can do is slice through the her hide and skin. You reach into the heaping stink of animal guts and pull out the unborn calf. You sense no instinct. No struggle. No life. And a heap of dead calf lies in the fine grey dirt at your feet. A collapsed mix of viscera, sinew and lifeless eyes.

I tell her, “Leave teeth stains on my chest” and pin her forearms into the mattress.