by Mykle Hansen

Slowly, languorously you roll your pink socks up your smooth calves as I slip one leg, then two, deeper into the legs of my loose, loose trousers. You slide seductively farther away on the tan print sofa, shuddering slightly as you do the clasp on your brassiere, slide into your dress, your boots, your galoshes. My cock grows soft, softer as you spray me with the cold, wet garden hose. I talk about the economy to get you even less excited, and then I don my moist, dripping poncho.

I move even further away, humming lowly as I file my change of address forms. (The way you stop calling me makes me so steamy.) Now you are shaving your head, piercing your nose, changing your name, moving to Austria. You don another sweater. My cock is so flaccid and squeezably soft that i grow incontinent. Your nipples droop with restrained boredom. An icicle dangles seductively from your crotch.

"Are you ready?" I telegram as I mount my turgid space probe, clamping down my helmet and my thick, thick gauntlets. "I am pushing, ramming myself farther away. Beg me to leave!"

"Oh, god yes, go away, oh!" is your e-mail response from your concrete bunker. There you have encased yourself in quick-drying plaster and dry leather straps. The buckles chafe. My manhood shrinks to the subatomic scale. Your tits fall off. The rocket fires. I exit you.

"Oooh! Yeah! Farther! FARTHER!" you scream as I approach infinity. My joints stiffen. "Hold on ... I'm going!"

"Me too! I'm going! I'm gone!"

* * *

The universe fades as we anticlimax together. I roll off the sofa and look for a cigarette but the cigarettes are all smoked. Then I remember we're both dead anyway, so I smoke myself.