Extinction Vortex by Exo¬Terrism

As I approach the mating grounds, one of the larger females shows an interest in me. She curls her arms downwards to signal her carnal disposition. Her stains throb as she makes her way towards me. Elaborate displays of intention are an indication of the firmness of a relationship; the shorter the relationship, the more elaborate the display. Decisions have to be made quickly. The information available is often limited. The aim is not union, but contact. It is a solitary experience.

Coitus makes significant demands on both partners. It is unnecessary for a sterile species and superfluous in an age of elaborate gaming. But eroticism does not accommodate itself well with limits. The thrill of social stigma and the clumsiness of unscripted coition constitute an extravagance and a luxury.

She makes me an offer I can't refuse. I accept, and she moves me away from her rivals, down towards the park. The bottom is a blind spot. It attracts those who have something to hide. The air hangs heavy with the stench of fluids and flesh. The bushes shiver and groan, occasionally revealing segments of postures assembling geometries of intercourse.

We make our way to a bench by a pond and undress. I sit down and she squats in front of me. She creeps backwards until her abdomen is positioned over my head. She repeats this several times until I press my palms against her throat. She turns to face me and wraps her arms around me, clutching onto my head and rubbing her torso against my face. She slowly makes her way down and thrusts her head beneath my legs.

I do not hold her, using my hands instead to grasp the bench. She arches her back, encouraging me to collect and produce. I oscillate, bending my legs, progressively increasing the degree, until I ejaculate. Empty, I place my thighs on her head to allow the sperm to ooze down her back onto a bulge that protrudes from her spine. When I dismount, she uses one of her arms to pass the semen to an opening near her mouth.

I collect my clothes. As I put them back on, she hovers over me, standing guard. She tells me she hasn't slept in three days. I recommend a warm bath. The silence that follows is awkward. We shake hands and part ways.

Some people drink, some collect stamps,
some prefer gardening or cross-dressing. This is our thing. This is our two-word gesture
to life as a statistic. In case of anxiety, just infuse longer.

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