by Gabino Iglesias
Tom felt the drunken man’s calloused hands tighten around his skull. His fingers were so long they almost wrapped around his head twice. The man moaned so loud it made the grimy floor under Tom’s knees shake like a coked-up Chihuahua in a freezer. “Keep it down, you two,” said a depressed lamppost that was witnessing the action from the alley’s entrance. Instead of quieting down, the brute moaned louder, rammed his spiny cock into Tom’s tonsils a little harder, and massaged his head. Tom felt like a melon at the supermarket.
After a few minutes, the man stopped moaning and started grunting. The sound brought toads the size of well-fed hogs out of their hiding spaces. The green monsters slowly made their way to the two men, studied them with intelligent eyes, and sauntered back to their hiding places once they realized it wasn’t a mating call from a fellow suburban amphibian. In an exasperated tone colored by anger, the lamppost dimmed its light and spat a seemingly endless barrage of curses at the two men occupying the alley.
Despite the brief appearance of a curious crowd armed with lethal tongues and the well-lit bombardment of insults from the streetlamp, the thrusting man, whose name Tom never got around to asking, kept forcing his barbed unit into Tom’s mouth faster and faster. Tom gagged a few times. Instead of diminishing his violent momentum, the sound made the brute squeezing Tom’s head pump faster and groan louder. Tom could taste blood in his mouth and tried to keep his lips sealed around the invading cock so as not to ruin his Hawaiian shirt.
Not for the first time, Tom’s awareness of his current situation made him contemplate suicide. Oblivion seemed much better than this. If he had a friend, he’d ask him or her to burn him to death and then throw his ashes from the top of a tall, green mountain, which could only be found in dreams. Alas, he had no friends, so he focused on the task at hand (and throat) and imagined a feast of endless bellies full of delicious redness.
Finally, with one last brutal grunt that made the bricks gasp, the man pulled Tom’s head into his crotch and came. Tom swallowed greedily and concentrated on not vomiting despite the man’s stench making his nose hairs gag. The man collapsed against the filthy alley wall behind him and looked down at Tom. Now that he had blown his load, this whole thing was looking like a really bad idea. His bulging eyes retracted a bit into his oversized skull and his fingers danced to a silent song apparently only they could hear. Tom had dealt with men like this one before and knew most of them considered viciousness a natural consequence of seduction once the horniness evaporated. Cautiously, Tom got up and walked away instead of cracking a joke. Last time he’ done that, the man, who thankfully didn’t posses huge hands, had punched him in the nose before exploding from rage and bathing him in in slimy chunks of bluish innards.
Instead of following Tom, the man hurriedly shoved his cock back into his pants, zipped up, and stumbled away, heading back to the bar as a translucent humanoid creature flew down from the dark skies and began hitting him on the head with a Stick of Shame.
Tom sat down against a dumpster and ignored the smell coming from the small puddle of garbage juice a few feet away. The toads’ croaking was a constant crescendo that never went anywhere, and Tom liked it that way. He crawled inside the vibrating sound and focused on feeling his malnourished body’s reactions. Warmth was already spreading though his abdomen with the speed of spilled paint. The feeling was very familiar to him, but he still felt nervous because quality was never assured. Sometimes things went wrong or he swallowed stuff coming from a man who’d successfully hid an awful disease, and the results of those mistakes haunted Tom’s nightmares. Yeah, he’d had to destroy and then flush more than one in the past, fearful of what would happen if he left it out there in the open for the world to see. Going through the process and then having to get rid of one always broke his heart and made him feel like he’d wasted his time and effort. This time, everything felt right.
A few minutes later, after the butterflies in his stomach had exited Tom’s body through his left nostril, the crippling nausea started. Tom lay down and hugged his knees. Times always varied, but this time around the process was mercifully quick. Tom felt it coming and stood up. Silvery liquid was pouring from his mouth before he’d had a chance to bend over. The shimmering vomit commenced and kept coming for about half a minute. Tom closed his three pairs of eyelashes and let it happen. When the lack of oxygen threatened to make him pass out, the vomiting stopped. Tom slowly peeled back the membranes covering his eyes and looked down at the miniscule pink baby writhing in the silvery puddle. This one was a tad smaller than the previous two, but the red glow coming from his distended belly told Tom it was full of energy. He picked up the teeny limp body and quickly ripped its head and limbs off. The toads would take care of those. Then, with an anticipatory grin plastered on his vomit-stained face, he sank his teeth into the tiny belly, ravenously digging with his teeth for a taste of the pulsating red promise it held.
Gabino Iglesias wrote a book called Gutmouth. He also impersonates a Texan professionally. And he’s like a journalist or something. This story is dedicated to Granary Rubworth.
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