Free Black Hole by Bucky Sinister

hurry. No wonder, they’re almost naked.
    It’s so weird running into you, she says, checking her phone as we scurry down the sidewalk.
    Oh my god, she says. So gross .
    She hands me her phone. It’s the Andy video. I hand it back to her.
    Saw it already.
    We get to an SUV. She opens the door and whistles. The dogs scramble in.
    How did you get here? she asks.
    I don’t know, I say.
    She laughs. You are a funny guy.
    We’re at some queer house in Twin Peaks. Old-school SF homo. Not any of this new-money, high-tech bullshit. This belongs to some daddy from way back. Probably bought this for a hundred K back in the early ’80s.
    The place is immaculate but outdated. Still, it’s a welcome sight compared with the IKEA nightmares going on now. Tom of Finland prints hang in the living room. There’s a trophy case in the corner from some kind of Castro contest, and there’s a leather hat hanging on the one of the trophies. Pictures of men in chaps and whisk-broom mustaches. There’s a big-screen TV, but it’s old, one of those things that weighs a god damn ton, with a VCR and tapes of all the old classics like Auntie Mame and The Rose.
    The dogs immediately run for the sofa. Liza yells at them, and they scamper away.
    Do you have to walk them, too?
    They shit in the toilet, if that’s what you’re asking.
    Yeah, that’s what I’m asking.
    Liza puts on a record. It takes a minute. It’s Jesus Christ Superstar or Hair or some other ’70s musical soundtrack.
    I take out the marble and my pipe.
    Now, for this . . . I say.
    She turns off the lights and turns on a lava lamp. She joins me on the couch.
    What is it? she asks.
    Something new. The new thing. The new high.
    She takes it without another word of what it does, what it’s like, what’s in it. It’s the new high. The first time you get high on anything, it’s full of promise, potential, probable bliss. Maybe it’s going to be your favorite. Maybe it’s the best yet. Maybe it’s the drug that finally fixes you. But whatever it is, that first time is special. It’s the one that feels the best. It’s the time that you use to judge all following usages of that drug. She hits it, long and practiced.
    In the light, I see some kind of textural problem with her face, like horrible acne or something covered by makeup. It’s a bad scar, a huge one, running from her chin up to her hairline. I notice her ear; it’s a prosthetic. It’s hanging on, slightly off-colored. Her eye is dull, because it’s not real, it’s glass. Something horrible happened to a side of her face.
    Jesus Christ, Chuck. This is good.
    She holds it in with the patience of an Olympic diver. She exhales.
    Oh my god. Oh my god. This is good. Fuck. This is good. Take your clothes off.
    Really?
    Yes, really, take them off, now. Oh god, I have to fuck on this.
    She passes me the marble back. Immediately, her clothes come off, sliding out of them like a snake molting.
    Her body is a mural of every trendy tattoo from the last twenty-five years. Some faded, some added to, some with fallout, some fresh. Tribal. Biomech. Traditional. Pinup. Roses. Fucking angel wings on her back.
    There are stretch marks and scars, but it doesn’t matter one bit. She still has those wide hips curving out from the narrow waist. I hit the marble and get marble-hard right away.
    Come on, she says. Off.
    She’s rooting around for something. I’m trying to get my clothes off so quickly that I’m taking off my pants without taking off my shoes first. They’re all tangled up and stuck. My cock looks like it’s reaching for her.
    She turns around with a bottle of lube the size of a Pringles can. She laughs.
    Oh my god. Now that’s the cock I remember so fondly. Let me.
    She pulls my pants and shoes off. I’m naked on the floor. She opens the lube and pours it on me like she’s syruping a