Peter Christ is a writer and musician currently living in San Francisco. His short fiction has appeared in 3AM Magazine, Pif Magazine, Curbside Splendor, Western Press Books, Hobart, Elimae, Oklahoma Review, The Legendary, Zygote in My Coffee, and elsewhere.
METH LAB LUBE
Frank’s left eye had gone out a few days ago. That’s what happens sometimes when your whole existence amounts to sitting around taking toxic drugs. It was an unfortunate situation. In order to cope, Frank took more drugs and tried to forget about it.
Presently high as fuck, he had never before experienced such intense sexual arousal. The lights were out in his bedroom. It was 1 a.m. but there was no chance of sleeping. He was too turned on to sleep and, also, a deafening dance/death metal band was playing right beneath his bedroom. Frank lived above a bar. Over the years, he had heard all the bad and mediocre acts of the local region. It was the best way to maintain a successful drug dealing business. Nobody buys drugs like second-rate rock stars.
Lying there on his bed, on his back, naked, Frank considered going downstairs to try to lure a drunk college girl or two up to his little love nest. They could still hear the music, he would say. It comes up through the floor like the gentle roar of the ocean. Isn’t that romantic? And when the music is the pulsing sort—dance beats, doont-DUNT-doont-DUNT—it’s almost spiritual, like the ocean having sex.
But then, realistically, he was too horny to move, much less stuff himself into pants and strut downstairs. Also, the music was getting to him. Doont-DUNT-doont-DUNT, etc. Fuck, his dick. His massive, cast iron hard on. It was nearly to the point of aggravation; twitching, moaning, wriggling—it pulsed so hard it hurt.
Luckily, Frank was the master of self-pleasure. Years ago, by a stroke of accidental genius, Frank had developed a special homemade lubricant while experimenting with various additives for his standard meth recipe. He had always intended to look into marketing his product (“Meth Lab Lube”) but had yet failed to find enough clear-headed initiative. In the meantime, he always kept a bucket of his special meth lube beside his bed. Presently, he reached over and grabbed a whole gooey handful of the stuff.
“AHHH,” he groaned. It felt warm, slick, gummy, and wet as he slathered it all over his whole general crotch area. “OHHH YEAH,” he whimpered, helpless at his own pleasure-giving mercy.
Not even teasing himself about being gentle about it, he tugged, yanked, pulled, thrust, lunged, and whipped his hard pole up and down and around and around in the most ridiculous, greedy haste.
After a few moments, though, he slowed it down. True to his title of the self-pleasure master, he focused on the finesse of the act, manipulating pressure and friction with the most tactful and dexterous of discerning hand-to-dick contacts.
Meanwhile, his right hand, previously unoccupied but for scratching at some inner-thigh meats, gradually crept up beyond his busy groin, through his forest of chest hair, along the pumping veins of his neck, over the soft plump lumps of his cheeks, and finally to rest on the bulbous corpse of his left eye. Recently, he had been getting off on gently poking and rubbing the dead thing. As a result, it became increasingly numb, foreign, and erotic…
Being, as he was, at least in his best moments, a distinctly literary gentleman, Frank was well aware of the fact that the eye was once, in old British poetry, referenced as a vagina euphemism. Like that most sacred orifice, the eye, too, is moist, oval-shaped, and surrounded by hair. And there you go. So, perhaps it was not too unreasonably perverse for Frank to…(delicately at first, but then with escalating vigor as he worked himself into quite a fit of sexual passion)…to…basically “finger” his sad, sightless eye.
Heaving, groaning, and enjoying himself indeed a whole bunch, it took Frank quite some time to finally reach an orgasm. That’s one of the funny effects of methamphetamine: while it increases sexual arousal, it often makes coming difficult, and sometimes impossible. Once Frank masturbated for a full two hours with nothing to show for but a rather raw thingie, still hard. Perhaps he should have thought about that before he started to finger his eye. Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Forty-five. …By the time he finally went off, his left eye, already long dead, now was left a dark, soggy grave of blood and meth lube.