AUGUST 19, Mirmande to Monaco:

I close the house while you pack up the car.

I find the candelabra on the patio. Its three candlesticks have melted together into a braid of flaccid penises.

Me, motioning to you: Any interest in keeping this?

You, tilting your head, inspecting the forms: Not so much. Your penis is enough.


We drive on back roads.

You: Are you always taking these small roads to elude the police?

Me, telling the truth: No, they just have better places to fuck.

We stop in Die at a rummage sale. Bric-a-brac overruns the streets.

Bins of postcards, magazines. A wooden table with a marble base, each leg a sphinx. A lime green ashtray with an advertisement for fresh jam.

Me, ready to go: I’m pretty confident that there’s nothing here for us.

You, taking my hand: Come on. Let’s poke around a bit more.

A jigsaw puzzle box catches my eye. A woman walks into the wind on a boardwalk, behind her a car and the sea.

Me, suddenly excited: Look. Rolls Royce, Silver Ghost. That was Gatsby’s car.

You, mildly interested in the automotive details: It has 3000 pieces. Let’s get it. We’ll find a quiet place to put it together.

You: We can pretend we’re old. We’ll just sit there, doing the puzzle. We won’t leave until we’re done.


We drive on. The white queen twists below the mirror. You are bent over the puzzle box, sifting through the pieces, searching for corners.

You, holding out your hand, genuinely excited: Look, I found all four!

Me, not providing the respect you deserve: Wow, only 2996 pieces to go!

We park on a rise and walk into a field with a blanket, cheese, a tomato, a peach, my knife.

Standing, we see the cars rush by. Seated, our heads are just visible above the seed stalks. Lying down, we disappear.

The tomato looks as if it might burst. I puncture it with a neat X and suck.

Me: Try it.

You, sucking it dry, nonchalantly throwing the skin behind you: Yum! I feel like a spider eating my liquefied prey.

I lie back, close my eyes, sigh. Moments later, something is tickling my nose. I brush with my hand. It returns.

I look up and see you with two long stalks of grass in your mouth.

Me: What are you doing, hillbilly?

You, through clenched teeth: I’m a spider, dummy. I am looking for a soft spot where I can inject my venom.

Me: Don’t you need to catch me in your web first?

You: Oh, I’ve already done that.

You, authoritatively: Now, stop moving. Resistance will only increase your suffering.

I acquiesce, feel your fingers unbuttoning my shirt. Strands of grass brush against my collar bone, across my chest.

My nipples become erect, goose bumps rise. My cock pushes against my shorts. I feel its head peek below the bottom seam.

You, caressing its tip with the grass: This looks like a tender bit.

Reaching down, you tug at my shorts, bring them to my knees. My cock flops onto my stomach.

You, straddling me, your clit pressing, rubbing against my shaft: Just warming up for the lethal bite.

Reaching back, you pull me slightly inside. My mouth is open. I let out a little moan, attempt to push further.

You, admonishing, pulling away: Hey, no resistance!

Taking a long strand of grass, you tie it around the base of my cock, bring it between my legs, behind a thigh.

The blades radiate out from the stock. You tug from below the seed head and my cock rises in response.

You: Now, my little marionette, where were we?

Your hand tugs hard against the grass, drawing the blade against my testicles, as your cunt swallows me whole.

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