by Edmund Colell
I love your mouth.
The firm scrub of your teeth against me.
Your tongue slobbers gobs of glee.
I love your… something… south?
Fuck it, I don’t know poetry. Maybe you don’t expect sweet and clever things from a wad of gum. For all the years we spent exchanging juices, I didn’t need to. Bathing your throat with natural cherry-watermelon flavor, letting you stretch me into a jump rope before you strip for cameras, popping over your face when you blow me, that all used to be enough for you. We became business partners, emphasizing your oral magic and earning your stage name, “Slutton.” Together, we’ve climbed to a level of brand recognition that maybe five other adult movie stars can claim.
Then came that taffy. The gang-bang scene at Steam Cathedral a week ago. You released me from your mouth to make room for a dick, which was fine. In our strong relationship, I applauded you exercising your tongue and jaws on crotches worldwide. But the director didn’t know that a spokesman for Oral-Gazm Taffy snuck onto the set as male talent. The bastard produced a wrapped piece of red candy from under his tongue, pulling his slobbery cock from your lips to jam that candy deep in your mouth, and you dropped me. You quit moaning, and even stopped breathing. The set fell silent. Your chin shivered, your body quaked, and a deep squeal swelled deep in your belly. Spit pumped down the sides of your mouth, the salivary glands ejaculating. All the while, the Oral-Gazm agent said, “You like that? You like how Oral-Gazm Taffy’s studly fruit flavors and zero calories make your mouth cum? Huh?” You couldn’t answer, choking with your eyes rolled back, but you didn’t fight either.
I tell you our story because I have good faith that the taffy fucked your memories out.
I collected stale dirt in the Dumpster by Steam Cathedral’s editing room. Quite a different atmosphere, stuck in a tank built for filth as opposed to the immaculate church converted to an infamous porn studio. The church starved that Dumpster for ages, its sheets and floors so hungry for trash and human fluids that its musky air causes any penis to harden and any vagina to well. I may have been the first snack fed to the Dumpster in years. It thanks you.
I met fellow pieces of ThunderPop gum in the dump. Thousands of wads you tossed in your life. The oldest, your first love, remembers how you once shared it with a girl, joining tongues against your high school’s fence.
That piece dried to a corpse when I revealed your new relationship with taffy, curdling with hatred I hadn’t felt. It didn’t know that Oral-Gazm stole you. We ThunderPop pieces formed your longest relationship, and one affair with taffy can’t destroy what made us special.
The older wads and I have bonded. They gathered grit and scum over time, and I doubt they have any sweetness left, but I still carry sugar for you. While the others become rough hands, tired feet, and hardened body, I loop myself into a pair of lips.
I, a man made of dumped gum, probably taste the way I smell. But God damn it, I love you.
Thursday morning, the start of a new film, I meet you outside Steam Cathedral. The outline of taffy pokes from your shirt pocket. How many of them have you gone through this week?
The director has fled in her black-speckled Porsche, taking three ladies who were eager to serve your on-camera clam buffet. Two of the camera guys stick around to film us: the spurned lover, the new fuck buddy, and you. Maybe they’ll start a Youtube meme of us. For you, and them, I kneel on one sticky knee and offer a once-divorced wedding ring.
The taffy swells in your pocket. Wax paper and your latex suit burst, giving birth to the piece of shit himself. He lands, blue lightning bolts pulsing vein-like in his orange flesh. Unlike how I draw strength and shape from my brothers, the taffy inflates himself, outgrowing me, because the sparky fuck won’t skip new ways to one-up.
He kicks my ring to the dirt. His sparking hand slaps my lips off.
I yank fistfuls of his electric arteries and tie them around his neck. He doesn’t need breath, but maybe his own powers will burst.
“Stop!” you say. Glad to see you play an active part in our story after all. “Look, it was weird enough when walking gum told shitty poetry. It’s too much drama when real guys fight over me, let alone… this.”
Can’t I choke him a few seconds longer? Just ’till he pops?
“No. Besides, this fucked up our shoot. Those guys with really expensive cameras are wasting footage. Tell you what. You guys calm the fuck down, we make a video of you both fucking my throat, and we pretend this part is the awkward intro that everyone skips.”
Maybe you’re right. I’m sorry. I take your hand, the taffy takes your other, and the cameras follow us to Steam Cathedral’s biggest, hungriest bed.
“Please stop narrating.”
Near the end of our naturally-flavored, unnaturally-hot scene, I can’t help myself. The taffy and I, stuffing our sticks down your neck while they twist together and trade flavors, that deserves narration.
Your mouth’s too busy rattling and howling for you too object, and you can’t smack me when one hand holds the sticks steady and the other plays with your clit.
The taffy sweats shocking lemon-berry on me, washing away the icky things that would kill the mood if I described them. My coils entangle the taffy’s veins. Its face blushes lightning flashes and draws me closer.
For the first time in porn history, two different kinds of candy, eager to kill for the sweet space inside your lips, make out while getting sucked off. The taffy and I combine into one hulking sugar stud, your long-term lover and mind-blowing fuck buddy made one. We feed you hot, diabetic, and slightly salty goo.
Is this it? Has our love renewed?
When the lights and cameras end, you wipe your mouth, gather your clothes, and leave. Your parting words: a request not to narrate your life any more.
We, gum and taffy, drop by Blackouts for dessert wine. At the bottom of the third glass, overdosing on sweetness, we figure there’s still a future without you. One where we compete against you. Slutton, the porn world met us once and we’ll be back. We start our new career at Steam Cathedral tomorrow. If we all come across each other again, it will be messy. And hot.
Edmund Colell’s work has appeared in Bizarro Bizarro: An Anthology, LegumeMan, Bizarro Central, Amazing Stories of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, The Strange Edge, Bizarrocast, and elsewhere. He lives, loves, and lobotomizes in Tucson, Arizona.
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