by Samuel A. Proffit
(08/30/06)

Angelina J, in life a bad-girl actress of great renown, kneels before me, her pouty-lipped mouth wide and eager to devour my engorged cock. She was a woman I'd always fantasized about, a dark angel oozing dangerous sexuality, a walking pheromone bomb. A gorgeous conglomeration of sexy parts -- breasts, ass, legs, face, and lips, oh especially, those lips -- she'd seemingly been put on earth for the sole purpose of making men (and plenty of women too) lust after her like parched animals doomed never to drink.

But that was in life. Here, in the quivering pink of my Elysian Fields, I get to have any woman I want, any way I want, any time I want. Of course, there is something of a rub (no pun intended) in my equation of eternal bliss, a fly-speck in my Olympian nectar.

But never mind that now. Angelina waits.

She runs her tongue along my swollen head, the first pearly drop of pre-cum already seeping from the tip. I arch my hips forward and she pythons me in, taking my cock all the way to the base like a ravenous swordswallower. Kneading her taut breasts and pinching her gumdrop nipples, I piston in and out of her warm orifice of pleasure, her full lips exerting exquisite pressure on my frenulum.

Just as in all my earthly fantasies, Angelina is the perfect sucking machine, the archetypal vacuum pump of oral sex. She sucks greedily and moans encouragement, pulling me thrillingly close to the edge.

Unlike in life -- where I'd have been lucky if I made it past the one-minute mark -- here, I can last as long as I want. I could fuck Angelina's mouth for a month, a year, for a century if I chose to. Of course, bragging rights about how long you can last are pretty meaningless in a place where time has no meaning, where time doesn't even exist.

And yet even paradise has its dilemmas, for while I'm fucking Angelina, I'm forgoing the opportunity to fuck all the others who lie out there, open mouthed, spread eagled, asses upturned, waiting. Ironic, really, that in some ways, the problems of heaven aren't so different from the ones back on good old Mother Earth.

So I have a decision to make -- when to let fly -- and here or back in life, decisions have always been difficult for me. But Angelina is moaning louder and sucking harder and begging me with her eyes to give it to her. And so, with a shudder, I let the wave that has been building in me rise to its crest, crashing and creaming into the sweet, lovely shore of Angelina's mouth. And as the wave breaks and my come spurts into her, the world disappears into a curtain of pearly whiteness and I disappear with it into the unbearable agony of death and the unbearable ecstasy of life.

Or perhaps it's the other way around, because when the wave lifts you up and hurls you into its depths to drown and disintegrate in its blinding froth, there is no up or down, no self or other. There's no nothing and no everything, just that all-enveloping explosion of whiteness through which you die and disappear and are re-born all in the same instant.

At last it's over. I return to myself with a final tremor of agonized pleasure as Angelina laps up the remnants of my seed and releases me from her lush-lipped pleasure dome.

She smiles me her wickedest smile, as if to say "Come again," and then she lies back and recedes into the boundless meadow of pink Venus fly traps, a beautiful, voracious flower, happy and sated until the next time I want her.

I rise from knees and survey my domain, solipsistic yet crowded, an Elysian Field of orifices, an endless lotus land of human flowers, succulent, pink, and hungry for my pollen. They are all here -- well almost all of them -- every woman I'd encountered in life, seen or imagined, furiously fucked or vainly lusted after. They are an endless menagerie, my honey-nectared crop of beauties, my own personal encyclopedia of delicious pulchritude.

Every woman on the street whose tight ass made me salivate as I marched in step behind her; every woman on the train whose luscious, jiggling rack begged to be kneaded and sucked; every woman at the office whose high heels and short skirt seemed like a neon sign inviting me to bend them over the copy machine and fuck them silly; every porn star who I freeze-framed and rewound over and over as I pistoned myself and ached to be the one jackhammering her; all of them, each and every mouth and ass and cunt is here, waiting for me.

Ironically (and surprisingly, heaven is quite the ironic place), the only woman who isn't here is the one woman who I arguably ever loved. (I say arguably because, let's face it -- it's doubtful whether a man like me is or ever was capable of love.) Her name was Lauren. Beautiful, intense, and nearly as sexually voracious as I, only she was able to channel her lust into monogamous fucking. I used to call her my hot little volcano because she was fiery and volatile, her cascade of flaming red hair a silken lava flow.

Lauren was a therapist -- a therapist who specialized in treating people suffering from addictions, ironically enough (but then, life was never short on irony either).

At first, I suppose she found me interesting, a poster boy for libido run amok. And let's face it, it was no accident that she'd gone into her field, and no accident that she'd wound up with someone like me -- my hot little volcano had her own dark fires burning in her depths, consuming and unquenchable. But whatever the reason, she'd wanted to be with me and for a while had told me she loved me. She tried her best to save me, and though I really cared for her and maybe (giving myself more credit than I deserve) even loved her, I cheated and cheated and cheated on her -- and gave her genital herpes to boot, the ultimate valentine gift to keep giving forever. And though she never lost interest in me, after receiving that final keepsake she finally had enough, as if I was a fascinating research project that had become too dangerous and costly to continue.

So she cut all ties, which made sense because with people like her and me it's either all or nothing, And I never told her I loved her, which was fine too, because for a human jackhammer whose sole purpose in life is to pound holes, love is just a cloying tar pit that's going to mess up your drill.

So here I am, the ploughman, a walking, talking life-support system for my cock, surveying my fiefdom of pulsating holes, my only care deciding which woman and orifice to fuck next. No worries here about recovery time, no struggles to rouse the old one-eyed general. It doesn't matter that I just spurted every drop of my seed down Angelina's throat. My cock is already stiff again, my sack achingly full of come begging to be released. King Priapus' paradise is indeed an extraordinary place: the more I fuck, the hornier I get.

If I have any complaint about my eternal reward - and what a bizarre complaint it is - it's that the sex here is too good, and just keeps getting better.

Lauren used to tell me that like all addicts, I was chasing the ultimate high. Here, it seems it's the other way around -- the high is chasing me. The ecstasy when I come is almost too much to bear, and every time I blow my wad it's even more intense than the last.

I have to admit that I've become a little afraid of the pleasures of my paradise. The breaking of the wave, the drowning and disappearing into foamy whiteness, the dying and rebirth, it's all becoming a little overwhelming. Not that I'm thinking for one second of giving it up -- I intend to keep sowing my seed in the tender fields of pink till kingdom come. But I must admit that it's begun wearing me down, this endless orgy of pleasure.

It's ironic (there's that irony again): in life, it's the hardness of the world, all the vicious knocks, that slowly exact their inevitable toll of self-erosion. Here, there's nothing at all to wear you down except orgiastic delight and yet -- beyond all sense and reason -- wear you down it does. I feel as if I'm getting too thin, as if with each cataclysmic ejaculation I'm leaving another piece of myself behind. It's as if sex here is a gourmet feast laced with the subtlest of poisons: the more you partake, the more you waste away. But if that's the case, so be it. I will fuck and fuck and fuck until nothing is left of me.

And so I move on to my next conquest: one of the innumerable cockteases who I'd encountered on some forgotten strikeout of a night, some nameless bitch whose short skirt or hip-hugging leather pants or tight low-riders had no doubt yanked my eyes toward her camel-toe like a compass needle drawn north.

This one is hardly beautiful, but I choose her because her cascading red hair reminds me of Lauren's. And because she is my choice she arises from the field of slumbering orchids, naked and hot, wanting nothing but to be hammered by my throbbing cock. And I, the jackhammer -- only that, nothing more -- get down on my knees behind her (never bothering to kiss her because I really don't care to see her face) and plunge myself into her ready box, stroking the silk of her flaming hair with one hand as I knead her milky breasts with the other.

Taking her this way, facing away, I can almost imagine that I'm fucking Lauren, and I find myself seized with the absurd impulse to tell this nameless, faceless stranger that I love her. But my paradise has no room for emotional attachments, much less disingenuous ones. And so, to focus myself strictly on the business at hand, I push my crimson-haired vessel of pleasure down onto her belly and slowly ease my cock into her tight, hot ass, which with magical convenience (this is, after all, a perfect world) is lubed and ready for the drilling.

Her ass feels spectacular, a rubbery velvet glove for my cock, and I can feel the throbbing pulse of her orgasm and my orgasm, marching ever faster in perfect unison. And though I could make this teetering moment of unbearable pleasure last longer -- last forever if I wanted -- the ridiculous words still press on my lips, the ridiculous sentiment still presses on my heart, and so I pound her as hard as I can. And as the wave crests and my come jets into her, I explode with it into atoms, realizing as I die and am reborn that while the ecstasy will only keep getting better, the agony will only get worse.

The agony that is that incurable, peculiarly human disease...loneliness.

Back when I was alive, I used to hate post-coital small talk. To my mind, talking was talking and fucking was fucking, and there was never a need to mix the two, unless, of course, my partner felt inspired to croon filthy words of encouragement in my ear while I was banging her brains out. Except for when I was with Lauren, there was really nothing to say afterwards except, maybe, thanks for a great screw. Let's face it. If it's talk a guy wants, he'd go to a ball game with a couple of buddies and have some beer and shoot the shit.

But women, women are different. Except for the pros (and I'll admit that I resorted to using them now and then when the itch was bad and I couldn't find any other bush to scratch it with), every single damn woman I'd ever been with -- no matter how slutty, shallow, strung-out or just plain dumb -- wanted to have some sort of conversation afterwards.

The talk ranged from silly jib-jab, which was only mildly annoying, to the more frequent and aggravating post-mortems about what had just happened and what it meant. Of course, the real agenda behind these post-coital Q & A's, whether raised frankly (by the earthy, crunchy granola types whom I occasionally managed to bang), or coyly (by the far more common, manipulative japs found at any Gotham watering hole), was whether they were going to see me again, whether the act of fucking meant we were going to have a relationship.

Such questions would invariably piss me off royally, because whatever I did, however big of a prick I was, I never lied to any of them, never let promises come out of my mouth which I knew I couldn't keep. (Of course, if they, out of their own desperation, assumed things, that was neither my fault nor responsibility.) And the fact that I was honest, that I played the game ruthlessly but fairly, is the only reason I can think of for why I wound up here in this happy hunting ground of pink-petaled bliss.

Having said all that, it's ironic (yes, yet another irony) that as much as I detested having to make small talk or dodge-the-relationship talk back when I was alive, I find myself yearning for conversation here. For my paradise is a paradise of one and the flowers of my hothouse harem are really nothing more than orifices, vessels of pleasure that are warm, hungry and without the slightest semblance of a soul. Exactly the opposite of their counterparts in life, they are all action and no talk, and try as I may to get them to say anything, they only arise from their coral fields to be fucked, and return to slumber as soon as it is over, hungry holes posing as women, shadow projections of my priapism that are fleshy but ultimately unreal.

So the upshot is that the only person to talk with here is myself. And frankly, I'm getting pretty tired of the company.

Does it bother me that my paradise is riddled with so much cruel contradiction? Well, if it does, I won't admit it, nor do I need to ever think about it. For I am the ploughman, I am my cock and there is an endless field of pink holes waiting for my seed.

In my early days with Lauren, back when she thought she could save me, she used to try to figure out why I had turned out this way. She floated different theories: that I was trying to replace the mother who'd died when I was five; that I was somehow emulating my father, a charming and very social alcoholic who was always absent even on the rare occasions when he happened to be present. Eventually however, Lauren -- sharp girl that she was -- gave up trying to make excuses for me with any lame psychobabble. Having become resigned to who I was -- having given up on me, really, long before the day she was ready to let me go -- she used to only say that I had a hole in my heart, that I was trying to fill the emptiness in myself with sex.

And I know now that Lauren was right. Because for me, eternity will mean slowly disappearing into my own hole, vanishing into the single blind eye of my emptiness.

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