My whole body
shudders. Our sick stomachs ... copious amounts of sweat ... our hotel laundry
stained ... dust. My stale breath. A stranger's chest hair. DonutBluntsx has a whole-body
orgasm. He has the perfect arse. DonutBluntsx’s small skull ... his warm lips
... his eyes as poor witnesses ... the hardness of his touch ... the
inexhaustible encirclement ... the embrace. Drugs ... delirious sex ... abrupt
disappointments ... repetitive patterns. A close shot: my expression changes
... I now have a broad grin.
A panning
shot: DonutBluntsx’s face all fire-lit. A tiny unidentifiable noise ... the wind
hurries across the saltpan ... an almighty wail. Cough syrup wrapped in brown
paper. The stickiness of tacky bodies ... DonutBluntsx cleans himself with
white soap. Shadows loom across the Hollywood Hills. DonutBluntsx’s hot breath
... the humid undulations of sweat. My body palpitates. I have vague anxiety. I
have terrible vision. DonutBluntsx and I drink enormous quantities of liquor.
DonutBluntsx and I live in a suburban home. We are nervous people.
An eruption
outside the Alhambra High School. I make eye contact with DonutBluntsx. My
fingers swirl upon his body. He asks for my phone number. Beer cans litter San
Bernardino. DonutBluntsx stabs me with a kitchen knife ... bodies in body bags.
We meet in a private room ... no silent guilt here. DonutBluntsx is
intoxicated. He is middle aged. Concertina wire throughout El Monte. Crime
scene photos spread on the coffee table. Ordinary bodies ... people shot
point-blank. The ceiling has mirrors on it. DonutBluntsx tells me about some
redneck fuck he had last night. His dark eyes twinkle ... his small body ... his
animal instinct ... the wet sheets.
DonutBluntsx’s
knuckles into my head ... a bloody nose on the stairwell. Shit in the streets.
DonutBluntsx’s ugly mouth. He is a brute with a long navel. The front seat of
the Ford is forest green. DonutBluntsx gives off putrid body heat. My thighs
... I can’t breathe ... I can’t touch either. DonutBluntsx smiles ... his tiny
teeth. DonutBluntsx has black hair. I swallow worm pills. DonutBluntsx blows
bubble-gum. We fuck on the steel-cool table. I get the flu shot. We fuck inside
the convenience store bathroom. We fuck inside the health clinic.
DonutBluntsx
wears a feather boa ... some stiletto heels. We go for a walk through the
public park. I have scrawny shoulders ... DonutBluntsx in the passenger seat
... his impish smile ... his high voice ... his bony ass. Countless love as the
sun bleeds ... steam across Los Angeles ... spongy grey matter and electrical
impulses ... night time activity. My eyes glaze over ... the air tastes like
slow motion. Why do you love me? I can’t love you any longer.
Shane Jesse
Christmass is the author of the novels, Xerox Over Manhattan (Apocalypse Party,
2019), Belfie Hell (Inside The Castle, 2018), Yeezus In Furs (Dostoyevsky
Wannabe, 2018), Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), Police
Force As A Corrupt Breeze (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape
Organisation, 2014).
He was a member of the band Mattress Grave and is currently a member in Snake Milker.
An archive of his writing/artwork/music can be found at www.shanejessechristmass.tumblr.com
Instagram: sjxsjc
Twitter: @sjxsjc
