regret nothing

He tipped the bottle and tried to thumb out a pill and nearly burst into tears when his inability to self-coordinate resulted in the sound of pills tapping the sink bowl and the sides of the drain pipe. There was one pill left in the bottle. He carefully dropped it into his palm and popped it into his mouth lustfully. With the last of the water, he washed the medication into his stomach and shut his eyes again, trying to keep the throbbing down. He opened them again and stared at his dark reflection.

For a moment he got that feeling again; it was this feeling he got sometimes when it was dark and he had been thinking too much, the feeling that everything in his life was hopeless. It was like an empty pit in his stomach sitting there with the dissolving capsule, releasing a feeling of dysphoria, of despondency. Just for a moment, and then there was just the presence of the water, swirling in his nauseous belly.

He yawned and headed for his bed.

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He finally climaxed and came. He got off of her before she could escape the hypnotization the ecstasy of the orgasm was giving her. It took a few moments for him to find his robe which, instead of covering himself with, he used to wipe the semen and lubricant oil off of his penis. Tossing the silk onto the floor at the foot of her bed, he began to make his way out, knowing that she would have it washed and returned to his room when she wanted another night. As he got to the doorway, he paused and thought the same thing he always thought at about this time of the night:

Well, I suppose my life isn’t a total waste. At least I still have sex.

His headache was still throbbing. He imagined in the darkness that his head was literally pulsing and it really wouldn’t have surprised him if it really was; it sure felt like it was. Opening the cabinet, he reached for his bottle of migraine medication and popped the top off. He looked at the mirror, at about where he believed his face to be, and sighed. Or tried to because, halfway through the sigh, his intentional exhale transformed into an involuntary combination of a yawn and a moan; the yawn because his eyes really needed sleep, and the moan because his blood really needed digested aspirin.

He tipped the bottle and tried to thumb out a pill and nearly burst into tears when his inability to self-coordinate resulted in the sound of pills tapping the sink bowl and the sides of the drain pipe.

There was a certain discomfort he felt – in his back, in his neck, he couldn’t tell – as he lay there atop the memory foam padded mattress by Tempur-Pedic, or whatever company manufactured his bedroom’s center piece. He never checked the tags of anything his sister bought for him. He felt it was rude. Like you cared too much about what you were getting rather than who got it and the fact they took the time to find you a gift. It was always his biggest fear that people saw him as a materialistic ass and he simply refused to live with himself if it turned out public opinion was such.

Another sharp pain in his temple caused him to drop his thoughts concerning his hylephobic tendencies and sit up. He pressed his finger tips to his forehead and searched for release. After a while, he could feel blood pulsing through his veins and decided he needed a glass of water.

He hoisted himself from the mattress and trekked to the other side of his room to his bathroom. The black figure in the mirror gave him a sympathetic smile, or so he imagined the mirror would reflect if the lighting was bright enough to show the face he was making. After taking a moment to scratch his sandpaper face, he grabbed the glass he always left beside the sink and filled it with water. In his late, headache-attributed stupor, he slammed the fluid at his throat and got some of it to drain out the side of his mouth. It ran toward the floor on the way kissing his neck, licking his nipple, and feeling its way down his abdominals. A sample, the volume of half a mouthful or maybe half of that, managed to land upon the tip of his flaccid penis, still a tad engorged from seeing Anita earlier that night.

Tonight was alright, he thought.

He had entered her room upon her express command approximately four or five hours ago. She was laying on her bed, wrapped in nothing, not even the sheets. He looked first at her face, then at her breasts, then at her knees – which he had always felt looked disproportionate – all the while keeping the same mundane look on his face he always sported around her. She always returned it with the same apathy one normally shows a crumpled sheet of paper tossed in the corner. This was his wife.

For whatever reason, she always insisted he wear the silk night gown one of her carefully indecent friends – relatively of course – had gotten them at their wedding. The advertised model wearing the gown on the tag – which he continued to this day to discover in various drawers in his room – wore the robe as if he were about to take it off in front of a camera; the gift was meant to be for romance and ended immediately below the crotch. However, in lieu of the proper standards of decency expected by the present company at the time, the length of the gown was intentionally ordered about two sizes extra than would have been fitting if he had wished to mimic the model portrayed.

And so here James was again, standing in the door, wearing only the robe which was too big for him, physically ready to enter the woman whom a paper somewhere in a file showed they were bound under the ideology of marriage. Even though their marriage was completely representative of the friendship of their respective families, Anita still insisted that they regularly enjoy one another’s company in order to produce the children their families so desperately wished would appear. He exhaled and approached her.

He grabbed the tube from her nightstand and listlessly squirted its contents onto his semi-erect penis. He pulled himself up onto the bed and straddled her. Her arm wrapped around his torso and she collected him closer. Their lips met and spent a few moments as his hands explored her nipple and her hands massaged his buttocks. After a very short while he began to move downward along her neck with his mouth, then he reached her breast, and soon he was trailing down her figure. At approximately the belly button, he stopped his south-bound trip. He had decided his cock was hard enough. He moved his face up to hers and with practiced precision he licked the roof of her mouth, groped her breast with his left hand, and guided his penis into her with his right.

And then quite simply he fucked her. There isn’t really anymore to be explained. One could almost quote Atwood with the absolute void of emotion with which he was fucking the lower half of her body. An engine piston had less austerity than him while he was fucking and plunging himself in and out of her vagina. He knew that if he went really fast and concentrated on cumming, it would end quicker. All he wanted to do, really, was go to sleep. If it weren’t for her obsessive sex schedule, he most certainly would already be sound asleep, but instead, here he was, fucking the loudest rhythmic moan he could muster out of her.

Cory sat on the tightly packed second floor of the No. 14 Kristingr District transit rail just getting ready to depart on its east-bound, nonstop service to Viscon Square, Baare in :0180 rush hour traffic. He was all the way to the left edge of the bench, with his shoulder being crushed up against the plastic seating barrier. To his right, taking up a mound of space and causing him some discomfort, was a beef-cake of a man pushed up next to Cory so close he could feel the blood pulsing through rock solid muscles. Desperately hunting for a distraction from the scathing boredom threatening to suffocate him, he trancedly shifted his line of vision from the couple locked in copulation sitting across from him to the indistinguishable pixilation of his phone. 

“Did you see that movie with Branfier Wildde about the coffee shop or whatever? I keep seeing adds for it on my phone; wanted to know if it was any good.”

A screen blinked on the roof of the rail car coupled by a voice explaining that it was :0182 and the train would be departing for Viscon in 86 seconds. Any passengers for Viscon need to get on the train or the next one would be in 7 minutes. The buzz of the doors getting ready to slam shut sounded followed by the apathetic machinery crashing together and, luckily for the janitorial crew, failing to forcibly disseminate any potential passengers. The train then began to accelerate up to 2 kilomiles an hour. 

It took nearly half a minute for Cory to realize that moist hot air dispersed from the lungs of the beefcake to his right was disturbing his hair in a rhythmic manner. Concerned for his well-being, he slowly turned his head and took in the sack of flesh trying to get his attention. The man lacked little on his body, which was clearly the result of something laborious, probably occupational. He did however lack a shirt, allowing Cory to conclude that he must have a successful career in sportswear modeling. Among the things he actually was wearing were navy pants and a large, toothy grin that gave the impression of uncertainty. Though somewhat grateful for an excuse to not flash alternating images of sex and concert stages before his eyes, Cory did not drop the concern from his eyebrows as he continued to look at the thing staring back.

The shirtless man repeated his inquiry of film satiability. Not sure what to think of this attempt at conversation, Cory blankly stared for a second, then took a moment to think, and finally was forced to admit that he had no idea what actor or movie he was referring to. The man’s futile attempts at producing an inviting facial expression faded and were replaced with one of well concealed dejection as he single wordedly beheaded the conversation – “oh” – and began to fish through his pockets for headphones. Cory wasn’t sure what to think so he unlocked his phone and did a search for this actor in question.

The train took its normal 5 minute trip and came to a screeching halt causing all the loose mass on the train to pile towards the rear. In this thankful moment, Cory, who was unsatisfied that his search had produced anything relevant to the man’s unusual question, was freed from the crushing existence of this man to his right. He quickly locked his phone and stood up, preparing to exit the train.

A minute later, piling into the elevator, headphones in, hands in pockets, fingers languidly molesting the clip release and lock button on his phone in either pocket, he noticed that same shirtless bulk staring at him from across the span of the elevator box. If it weren’t for the pressure of others piling into the box, he would have froze. His hand clasped tighter around his gun as he found his way into some niche in the crowded lift and he spent less than a millisecond to make a note of which floor they were on. But then he looked back at the man, and made eye contact. The man realized that he had been caught staring and looked away, but in that short time they spent with their eyes locked, Cory recognized that the emotion held behind the blue eyes of the other was not malevolent intent, but regret.