witty-remark's Diaryland Diary




My head is pounding. I run my fingers along my hairline and rub my temple, reaching to the top of my scalp, parting my hair with my middle finger to trace a small bump on the right side. How the hell did I get that? My body seizes—becomes taut--and I’m suddenly aware of all the pain arrested in my various limbs and appendages. My back is stiff. My elbow creaks as I swing it up to massage my sore shoulder, while my thighs quiver. Wait, why are my thighs quivering? From between them, your head emerges, imparting kisses up to my navel.
Oh, right. That’s why.

“You’re a demigod. I worship you.”

I want to roll my eyes, but even they feel too heavy and pressed in with pain to move, like two steel marbles slowly sinking into the back of my head.

Plunk. Plunk.

There they go; now I can’t see. They’ve rolled all the way back, those steel marbles, spinning over the groves and folds of my brain.

“I worship you. I worship you. I worship you.”

You bow down and kiss my feet, licking your way back to my thighs, leaving a glossy film that catches the light of the flickering lamp; its spastic bulb making the shadows we cast on the wall jump around like the choppy cadence of old films.

It is cinematic, I suppose.

“I’m honestly addicted to y-” I grab a cluster of your hair and force your head back down.

Not cinematic, maybe. Pornographic, probably.

9:23 p.m. - Friday, Dec. 02, 2011

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