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Etiology
by Earl Coleman

I was there of course, a bottled ego yearning to bust free, where all was hanging, dangling, rising, hard and soaking with the moment’s dizzy rush, rooting for him as he rooted through her garters, garments, bloomers, so much string and fastenings and buttons, buckles, when he had a locomotive head of steam, a load he thought would kill him if he didn’t satisfy it quick, desire bigger than his bulge to get his hands upon her eighteen year old breast and hair, his belt already open, buttons at his fly about to pop, his stubby fingers prying at her underclothes to feel her nakedness and wet, cock bursting with the hots to plunge it in, with Rachel hating what his hands on nipples did to her but helping, holding, stopping, groaning, wanting, panting, guilty of her lust to pull him into her as if she were an alley cat, to fill her empty place; me hoping he’d succeed so I’d be free of being bottled up, she wild and frightened, oozing with her shameful readiness and juice, and hating him, herself for hurtling toward the act, and hating me for waiting to be made, in all the sweat and soft, and naked shock when in frustration he ripped camisole and all to give his frantic fingers access to the path through jungles of her mystery, an armed invader entering her country, all defenses down, until, delirious, despite the stark impossibility of doing it with pants around the ankles, stockings, garters in the way, her indecisive fingers aiding him, her body braced against the wall beneath the metal staircase in the fetid dark, a yard of them now flesh to flesh; me keen to be conceived and urging them to get it done, he rammed it into her with all his force and broke the bottle holding me and no one, no one could have crammed me back, a product now of all the imperfections of this mating, choice of partner, time and place, this squalid opportunity, this deformed chance, this mindless hunger, need to touch and hold and rut and launch your self, your senses, into life. And here I am.