Three Erections

It wasn’t really a question of whether God existed, the pussy had to be eaten and there was a certain righteousness to that. Eli was saying so. Daniel and some others were in the basement of the synagogue for the annual lock-in, and they sat rapt in Eli’s company. The girls were in the social hall upstairs. A pile of mini 3 Musketeers bars collapsed under its own weight.

Eleven years later, Daniel walked down Harrison Place toward the gallery where his friend worked. He found himself then summoning, or summoned by, the image of a dark haired girl he’d once known; the crescent of her pale ass transported him such that he was soon not much less than drifting behind her in this daze of being, looping that ephemeral bloom. He quickened his pace, past the middle-aged mechanics, two lain out on the stoop marred damp with heat, another, supine under the body of a car, and as he approached closer, just before the intersection, where her vision would cross to the right, departing the sidewalk like into the ocean of their separate burdens, her face revealed to him as some tense node concentrated only on a path of what he knew as total indifference, while he’d go left, on to pick up a painting about which he no longer cared, still married, letting that final glimpse flutter through him, and down the block, sparking from the heart of his loin, as he took out his cell phone and found that it had overheated, displaying a bold exclamation mark within yellow triangle, atop iPhone needs to cool down before you can use it. He waited for a minute in the shade outside the gallery. Then he called Todd to let him in.

Fourteen years earlier, he tried to imagine what a woman looked like naked in the car on the way to taekwondo practice.
He had seen his mother’s breasts for the final time, and perhaps the first conscious one, three years earlier, sunken and hugely drooped, like two horrible mesh nets filled with millions of small soft rocks, not yet able to be called a beach, the drawstrings closed tight like a pucker at the tops, descending, descending from gravity. He might have compared the slow falls of astronauts on the moon to the manner by which they hung, suspended, as he had around that time, at the age of six, lied about wanting to pursue the occupation in some classroom activity, but her cry out, ―Daniel, with the simultaneity of his own action, closing the bathroom door, stifled any hope for thought. Still, he did not recall any of this then. It was as if in the car he had discovered something new, and for the sake of what it was, he had.
This woman’s age could be any, and hers were definitively not breasts, but boobs. They were round and soft and white and nippleless. They were not so much a part of her, but an extension, and their relative size remained a mysterious lurch within him. Between her stomach and thighs lay an emptiness. He knew of bush, but knew it only as gina. When, two years later, he learned of its proper name, he found it both offensive on ear and paper, and it would take explaining from a high school girlfriend that it existed independent of the organ, or system or part or whatever, that was responsible for urination.

The figure jiggled around her tabula rasa of a self, and he became so hard that he pushed forth his athletic cup, projecting a noticeable codpiece-like bulge at the crotch of his exercise pants. He thought about something else, and when his mother parked he got out of the car, refusing hers, but exerting upon himself, in a distance of bowlegged strides, a painful embrace, which was already gone as the door to the dojang swung closed.