First published in rattle journal in 2011.
When I came home I was tired and dirty. It had been a stale day at the office. I wore the smells of burnt morning coffee and microwavable lunch. Irritating because it wouldn’t wash out anymore; it just became its own greasy fabric which rubbed against my skin all day long. I threw my bag onto the couch and went around the room turning on a few soft lamps. Adjusting the window curtains to let in the evening light, I caught myself in the living room mirror. My skin was quietly glowing, tight and firm. From here it looked completely smooth. I reached my hand up, ran my fingers along my jaw bone, circled my mouth and rubbed around my nose, feeling into the folds of skin. Then the tip of my index finger ran over a little nipple of a bump. I stopped and rubbed around it again, really molesting so I could get a full visual of how the blackhead or pimple might look. Oh, yes! This would be a good one. A fat little lump. I needed this. I slowly walked toward the mirror, tapping my plump little nub with one hand and unbuttoning my shirt with the other.
About an inch away from the mirror I stopped rubbing and just looked at it. A pink little dome had bubbled up, round, tight and nestled behind the curve of my nostril. The skin around it was swollen and tender from the infection that had snuck into my once tiny pore. A rosy little clit had grown. It looked young, as things of the skin go, but it was already ripening! Beneath the peachy flesh a shy shaft of white pus was anxiously pushing its way to the surface.
I pulled away from the mirror and finished unbuttoning my shirt. I slid on top of the old mission desk I had situated beneath the mirror, gently nudging a potted ivy aside with my rump. The area was the perfect antique vignette; rustic and earthy, old and refined. But with me half naked, breasts bare in the soft mix of afternoon and lamp light, brushing my nipples up against the cold living room wall, leaning into the mirror, the vignette was transformed.
I was back in now. Only centimetres away from the mirror the world shrinks so much that pores become great craters. Just one section of my face, in this episode, the area around the right nostril, became a whole new world. And I was there at its beginning stages, primed and anxious to explore.
With each of my index fingers I pressed gently around the peachy perimeter. The assaulted infection shot the electricity of pain through my nerves, hitting my vagina and ringing it in fire. I dipped my fingers all around the raw pinky flesh, pushing into the mound more and more. Feeling. Teasing. Rubbing round, pressing harder. I was feeling the route the infection had taken through my pore. It was fairly deep. I could see through the many layers of skin, down, following the hard creamy shaft into where it must expand into a reservoir of festering pus.
I was getting so excited! Sometimes you can push and prod and beg one to come, but it just won’t. Not this one. This one wanted to come. With each of my prods the shaft began struggling toward the surface. I pulled away. I had to stop or I would burst it too early. I resituated myself, leaning into the mirror even closer and accidently knocked the ivy off the desk. Rich potted soil spilled across the hardwood floor and exposed roots wiggled up at me, naked. But I couldn’t be bothered to sweep up the mess.
Here it was, the expulsion was ready to happen. I pressed in again. I saw the shaft bursting though the last few frail layers of skin, stretching them and snapping each until it finally burst through the last layer. The pusy shaft was free. An ivory rod shot out into the air, shaking in its newfound exposure. As soon as that baton became free it was immediately followed by a gushing white and yellow liquid. Dirt, blood and pus splattered on the mirror. And there in the middle of the puddle was his blatant body. With that final push I had pulled a plug and released a golden shower. That would be most of it, though I knew there must be a few more drops that had been missed. So to finish I gathered the reservoir at the tips of my fingers and shot it up and out the pore like a spillway. The products of these last few squeezes weren’t nearly as rich, but they gave me the sweet memory of it, which, at least the first time, is almost as pleasurable. It had been a big one. That pus was fat and greedy. He had been in me for a while, growing and feeding off his expanding underground lake.
But he was already shrinking and drying up there on the mirror! I backed my fingers in and dug around for any missed pockets of gold but only blood came out. That was all there was to this one. I sat away from the mirror, satisfied and yet wanting more. As I was putting on my shirt I caught sight of another bold beauty. This one had made her home on the left side of my breast. Probably molested and harassed all day by my work stained bra. Ah, this was going to be an afternoon of delights!