Room For Dessert

takes him to the bakery ♡

I always wanted him teeth and bone. Tendon and cartilage. Blood, milk and semen. Chemical bleach on scrubbed porcelain and stained tile, splattered cement and rusted hooks. Pink satin and red velvet, heart shaped pillows and a steel axe. Sawdust, dried leather, stiff jerky and murky green, still lake water filled with leeches. Misted asphalt with streaked, buzzing roadkill. To know the inside of him as well as the outside, in the same way a butcher loves and amires the cow he slaughters, as he loves by his knife, my knife was my desire. Double edged, we spilled into and possessed one another until this violence was the only thing we knew. How to tear each other apart, how to seduce and tease in the appetites of our grotesque carnality until to ravage one another would be but dessert…

My lips peeled back over my gums, frosted raspberry-swirled petals unfurling over pale taffy, budded by kernels of cream white, which pinched the thin skin of the swollen, glistening cherry in front of them. Sticky globs of its syrup dripped and smeared against my bottom lip before sliding like sweat down my chin. I swiped my tongue around the heavy base of the cherry, which hung in front of me by the stem, feeling it slide downward how the juice inside suctioned toward the plush surface at the way my mouth suctioned around its circumference. Each tiny nip and suckle at the tender red, and it threatened to gush open, spill its fluid between my cheeks, and frost my lips in the tacky sweetness. Nonetheless, after swirling the cherry between the warm, slickness of my cheeks, cushioning it against the roof of my mouth for a moment or two longer before I took its body between my molars and bit down.

It erupted with a solid thump of its innards shooting out and melting through my mouth, its thickness sliding down my throat even before I began to swallow the slightly bitter twinge of its saccharine boldness like eating the tail of a mucus slug. Then, following the gentle flick of the stem to discard it, I used two fingers to scoop the fluffy whipped cream from the spongey, squishy bed beneath and suckled it from my knuckles until it dissolved back into flecks of granulated sugar and milk. Taking my hands to hold the body before lapping and mouthing this frosting and biting into the denser warmth of pale yellow, my nails embedding themselves and crumbling the firm white, my teeth scraped my red palms, cutting through like the eager glint of a silver blade through warm butter, like a blade through the stretchy film of flesh before sinking through connective and musculature tissue, the gummy fruits and chunks of meat in between my buffet, swirling colors in my mouth I found myself unable to describe.

Instead, sinking into the tingling, melting pool of these colors that traversed both salty and savory, pastel blues and tender lavenders, shy pinks and desperate reds, violent blacks and demanding yellows, I chewed through grapes that were sharp and bitter, cotton candy and strawberries that were clumped in sugar and so sweet it was nearly as medicinal as the black licorice, twisting acidic and spicy vines of artificialness that strung earthy and metallic as blood as red as the tendons flossing my swollen gums, and old bruises turned from lime to lemon yellow, blooming and fuzzy as mold.

The clots of blood that sept to the bottom and stained his previously ivory, blush-kissed skin, these arrays of a soggy black, brown, and navy blues, the soupy blend of disintegrating tissues and chemical cocktails causing the skin to, in places, begin to peel away and rupture like the skin of the cherry, fat frothing from the torn seams such as whipping cream as he only grew sweeter, and my adoration for him, my need for him, a hunger, cravings, grew as well. He was like forbidden fruit, succulent and ripening by the day, by the hour, only getting better and better to the tongue as I continued to explore and draw out new tastes from him, rubbing the almond-tinted oils secreted from the softening of his intestines over my arms and scrubbing my skin with crumbling bits of swirling yellow and white, taking some in my mouth to toss across my tongue like gummy chews before it liquified. He had always been such candy, a treat for me to rot my gums with. Truthfully, there was nothing more tender, more appetizing then a fresh boy—his body open and delicate, softened and expelling pure love, giving himself up to be loved as with the movements of his lips before, he professed and pleaded. All I was doing was fulfilling my promise by allowing him to fulfill his purpose. His full potential.

Gliding my fingertips down where his body had unglued itself down the middle, peeling apart with gooey strings resembling strung, melted cheese across tinted pink before globbing on my hands, smearing them in his ichor, his gloss, I admired the array of plush, shiny, sticky, satiny and velvety organs staring up at me. They’d already begun to puff with their post-death bloat, his large ribcage holding the only structure for the jacket of flesh to contain his meat—before I scooped it out, that is. I stuck my fingers between the folds of his slick, bubblegum pink lungs and imagined the tiny bronchiol trees inside them becoming full of oxygen as the elastic tissue stretched and with it, caused the cartilagenous muculature of his interostals to stretch alongside them. He had a large chest, the budded, corn-yellow squamous, or fatty tissue which cushioned the vibrant, striated red of layers upon layers of roping musculature preventing the ivory, now greying, blue-tintd skin from crinkling the way it normally did. A normal corpse concaved inward itself, death an endless vacuum. Or rather, a blender that tears you apart from the inside out until you become reduced to slush. Instead, he remained as plump and ripe as his organs, fitting and twitching into my hands, slipping eagerly into my hold, into my caress... After cutting his lungs free from the base of where his esophagus disappeared into his neck, I took hold of his kidneys, liver, then squishy sac of his stomach, which I sliced open carefully, unzipping the first few layers until its contents were revealed to me. I dipped my fingers into the leftover pool of soy-sauce tinted bile, clumping the half digested food in the center of the pillowy, velvet-like cushion of the stomach, and slowly began pinching the soggy clumps. Putting them in my mouth and licking at the bile, it had a roasted, bitter taste to it, acidic, but still held leftover aroma from the actual food upon chewing.

Releasing the particles, I tasted what he tasted. Swallowed what he swallowed. Began digesting the same macro and micro nutrience. My body would use the same as his for energy, recovery, storage. So when I took the open bag of his stomach and began nipping at the walls, chewing through its rubberiness before swallowing chunks whole, allowing his liver to melt across my tongue like a fattened leech wriggling its way into my own bowels, I would become him. Absorb him. At the same time I began devouring his insides, a choked, muffled moan escaping me as the colors and wet vividness of his flavor burst inside me, I could feel the heat of my own body leeching from me in thick drool, two dogs salivating and needing to be satiated, teeth clinking and grinding together, my tongue penetrating his flesh before my teeth ripped it apart and ground it together, all the while I could feel the aroused flex of my inner walls as well, just as the tubing of my gastrointestinal tract clenched and twisted to push and pull him deeper inside of me, the same pulsing flutter was taking root in my pelvis, followed by the throbbing ache of hunger left unsatiated the longer I withheld from all of my indulges.

A stripe of glistening saliva up his pectoral muscle above where the cut what made, pausing at the faded mulberry pink of his nipple, and I nuzzled my mouth against his protruding Adam’s apple, his throat as dense as the rest of him. my small hands clawed at the broadness of his shoulders, tugging at his body to fit it against mine as I sunk closer, deeper into the gore, and admired to the leftover candy apples of blush lingering on his cheeks. I thought he was pretty alive—beautiful, even, but now there was something ethereal to his complexion. Ink black curls dusted his forehead, the honey-tinted warmth of his skin turned to powder, a hazy blue and purple rose to his lids and his cheeks become even more red, long lashes brushing the slope of them as his pink lips remained slightly agape. I kissed him, then, feeling the slicing of the stubble above his top lip into mine as I suckled at the skin until my teeth marks were indented into his chin, jaw and cheek, where I gnawed at that apple until it beaded cherry flavor. I loved the taste of blood—rotted blood, too, but fresh blood was creamy, the coppery twinge stinging the back of my throat, and I sucked the stench of it in deeper, the stench of his proteins, acids, his fat, the linger saltiness of sweat against his skin, and groped at the bulging wideness of his forearms before finding the hard knuckles of his long fingers, squeezing them between mine.

I could fit myself inside him, tuck myself under his ribs and between his hips into the bowl of his pelvic bone, nestled against the columns of his spine, pluck at the delicate thread between the spongey protective tissue, bite into it like a straw and slurp down his spinal fluids, then his cerebrospinal fluid, until it recoiled and bunched up like floss, shriveled and empty. If I could do it again, I’d keep him alive long enought to crack open his skull and start licking at his brain, then I’d take a tiny spoon and begin eating away at the bundled axonal branches, neuronal clusters and myelination between synapses as they still sparked and bathed in their chemicals, like swallowing mouthfuls of pink taffy flavored ice cream, I’d massage my tongue through the gyri and sulci of his hemispheres, savoring everything he was thinking, feeling, seeing, and then I’d eat his wet, dark chocolate eyes, and then finally his stomach.

But I couldn’t go back, as much as I wanted to, as much as I was filled with an inexplicable shrill of buzzing excitement and painful arousal watching the dark emptiness of death begin to seep through him like blood through the viscosity of milk, first dripping, then pouring, then it overflowed from him. It seized him in its entirely and swallowed him whole—this would be his second becoming, pulled apart by ribbons of pleasure, embraced by an ecstacy not many can say they have, leaving in the wake of that release a pearl-white rope of ejaculation pooling above his hip before the last of his rigidness softened to the occasional twitch of his agitated and tender shaft. I licked it off of him like a child would lick the frosting off a cupcake, with one flat scoop of the tongue before kitten-licking him clean, keeping the slightly meaty, salty liquid at the top of my throat and breathing in and out slowly before allowing myself to swallow it, the last of his life. And I gave that to him. In return, he gave me all of the ingredients to make a delicious dessert out of, a buffet of rich, savory, creamy, sugar-coated, waxy sweets, the mangled cluster of new cells. A slug of his cream still oozing from the slit, as if even in death I excited him, I laid beside him, curled around him, stretched the door of the oven open and plunged the baster, still warm, into delicate pink, and took him home to the bakery.