An Orgasmic Diagnosis with Interracial Flames of Gigantic Proportion (REDCUM.)

This entry was supposed to start off as a light-hearted joke, though no matter how I reworked it, I couldn’t rewrite my current situation into an amusing one-liner. So let’s just dive right in and I’ll give it to you as straight as a gay man can.

You’re cruising through city lights. Reds, greens, and florescent bulbs make pretty beams of fading hues as they once did for the superhero girl trio of your youth. Your thoughts race in a similar fashion from the end of everything to the powerlessness of uncertainty. Your boss’s words sitting heavy on your chest. Maybe you should have heeded the warnings more intensely. If only you had warshed your hands. “Warsh your hands,” you hear the warning echo on the radio again. It is 8 p.m. and you are officially out past curfew. On your way home to waitlists for unemployment paychecks and possible death.

I was let go earlier today, not for contracting the virus, but for coming into contact with someone who had it. The disease was not prevalent in our area, so I let my guard down. I had just finished dropping off my last passenger for the evening when I deleted the app for good. I wasn’t feeling well and decided I wouldn’t say anything to anyone until I knew for sure. That was my decision, my final selfish request.

The likelihood that you may already have the disease seals your fate. Many people sit in the backseat of your car you use for ride-sharing. You started this job only six months ago, with only 6,000 miles in your Camry, and in a six-minute phone call, he repeated the words you never wanted to hear, “I’m sorry, we have to.” Unemployment a new reality, a tangible one as real as the steering wheel you take hold of, it having more control over its fate than you do.

So many people still walking their damn dogs. This late at night. Their black and white visions of the world reflected in the evening’s starry sky. They lead wandering eyes to their homes, wherever that might be. For me, it is in a silent room with the monitor on. The blue light my north star as I type away. My cure only a few keys away from me. My dominant hand doing most of the work.

If that sentiment sounds a bit melodramatic, I’m allowed to be. I may or may not die in a couple of weeks.

I spent the rest of the night researching Reddit, myhomedoctorwithoutaphd, and many other natural home remedies blogs to no avail. By 9:35p, I had come to terms with my inevitable fate.

Which trip to the airport was responsible for your possible diagnosis? You search the air around you for a new doctor. Doctor everything will be alright replaying itself, or maybe a good dick doctor to fuck the pain away…

Sure a cure was bound to develop, medicines and remedies on the verge of a breakthrough. We were reminded of this every day if not from our president than from our naive hope in medicine. However, I ultimately decided this was the excuse I needed for my official medical suicide. It would be apart of my five-day plan. I determined not to go quietly into the good night.

Though explaining these thoughts to you, makes me feel uneasy because initially, it may come off as a bit morbid, I just want to let you know upfront that I am perfectly sane and in my right mind to make such a decision… I now suddenly feel a need to justify my thoughts to you. Remember I don’t owe you an explanation, but I will let you in on where I am coming from.

You see, I have lived an extremely happy life, for the most part. I mean the happy moments are so so happy, but it’s like every time I reach maximum fulfillment I am plagued with indescribable loneliness that robs my heart of every emotion I could experience. It holds onto them sometimes captive for days. Until the happy parts of myself, the ones I was once accustomed to, feel less and less authentic. “Maybe loneliness is my identity?” I question. The feeling is torture and is amplified by a million with the mandatory social distancing set in place for much of the world. Outside of work, I have no one. I am so incredibly alone. So when my boss called to let me know that I would need to self-quarantine before returning because I had come in contact with the virus, I took this opportunity as my way out.

My five-day plan is simple. There are only three plausible things left for me to do now that I am going to die with the world on lockdown.

The first two are sex-related, persons one and two, easy enough, but the last request, though it may sound crazy just stay with me.

I want to light my bed on fire in the middle of the orgy, rather the end; I haven’t decided. It all just depends on who’s on board. Now hear me out, I won’t force the other participants to stay if they don’t want to. But picture this: After we orgasm in unison 1–2–3 a syncopated orchestra, a bellow of bodily fluids, they would be more than welcome to leave, but I will at the very least make the offer to light us all on fire.

Here’s my pitch: Would you like to have an orgy with an epic ending? Yeah? What about an orgasm that ends in flames? No, actual fire.

Now we don’t have to die this way. Maybe it would be from the smoke or the lack of ventilation. But imagine going against your urge to stop and save yourself. What if our pleasure would be stronger than our pain? How romantic does that sound!

I thought about live streaming the event, but the thing about social media is that it robs people of their identities. I am not a repeatable image or a banned video. My sex will be a memory told in the truest medium of the 21st century, through an autopsy from our corpse. Once the bodies of the three corpse are found, the pieces of our limbs placed together like pieces of a charred puzzle, the bewildering fact that the orgy ended in flames and the three lovers did not hesitate to die together would make people’s heads implode.

I thought about who I would invite?

I could always download Tinder again, though I’d feel much more comfortable if there was at least one person who I knew in the mix. A friend who I could share my last moment with. I’d fuck them as I lost consciousness or as I’d watch the consciousness leave their eyes. I’d want there to be a mix of races too because a monochromatic burning is so played out.

Also location…

Of course, it must be in my room, though not in the current state it’s in. I must buy flowers. Make the scene truly romantic. There mustn’t be unfolded laundry on the bed.

Though I haven’t been officially diagnosed, I have accepted my fate. Plus, so much of the details in order. Sometimes I get ahead of myself.

I mentioned I wanted to live another five days at the very least, with the fifth day being the main event you may be asking yourself, well then what exactly would you want to do on days one through four?

Simple. Day one would begin at the gym, I wouldn’t want my pre-death body to be anything less than perfect. After a looonng Sunday workout I would attend a church service online, to ask for forgiveness for the thoughts I plan to carry out later in the week. Then after logging off, I’d order some Savage Fenty underwear and pay the extra money for expedited shipping so they’d arrive on Wednesday at the latest.

It’s important for me to patronize black businesses and queens.

I would then spend the rest of the evening watching reruns of the Oprah Winfrey Show in preparation for Day 2: The big giveaway! My illustrious closet will become gifts for my friends and admirers. Day 2 happens to fall on a Monday.

Day 3: I’d stop by Taco Bell for one last Taco Tuesday. I decided to use the tacos as an ice breaker when I broke the news to my mother. Tacos being her favorite comfort food. She was unable to hear me over the crunch of each bite. I chose corn tortillas for this very reason. Of my family, my mother and I were closest in thought. I knew she would pass the information along to my dad and brother. I thought about them, but mostly my younger brother, how the thought of leaving him would be the most painful of all.

Day 4: I’d get the underwear, leaving them in their packaging for the big day. I checked my phone for the third time that morning. The tracker stated that it would at least be another five hours before my delicates would arrive. I spent the first three outside, glaring at my mailbox, but I couldn’t help my mind from wandering. I thought back to how my mom reacted, how for so many years I denied my faith only to sit at my laptop on Day one and pray for my salvation. Eventually, my eyes wandered too, taking my feet along with them. It was still early in the morning, the sun was out, all of its light with none of the heat. Soon in a couple of days, I would have both I assured myself heat and light from the flame. It then occurred to me that I was missing the most important part of the orgy. Its participants.

I met up with my friend holding the package. “Can I see them?” Not until tomorrow. She had no idea what I was about to ask her. Her brown skin casually resting on the yellow skirt-dress that held her to the kitchen chair. We were at her house. I held her hand and squinted, she laughed at my face and sighed at the touch. We were close in age, mannerisms, and this moment’s honesty. “Would you let me fuck you I asked?” She laughed it off thinking it was a joke, but I didn’t follow suit in my usual way of reassuring her comedic routine with accommodating and forced laughter. “I’m serious,” I said, “I’m serious,” I said it twice, once with my eyes and the second time with my lips touching her agape mouth. I waited a moment wanting to feel something. She was the first girl I kissed. The thought of me fucking my childhood friend brought tears to my eyes. She was the first person I came out to in Highschool and the last person I wanted to see when I’d choreograph my death. With her on board, I began searching Tinder for a few more bodies.

In truth, I knew who I wanted to join us.

I’d driven him around a couple of times before I was put on leave, his neighborhood adjacent to mine. He was Italian, fair skin and red hair, absolutely gorgeous. I swiped through a few more profiles before working up the courage to stand at his front doorstep.

I’d never seen him outside of work, so this was uncharted territory and bit pushy.

I knocked on the door as fate had done to me with a forceful fist full of flowers. We embraced. Him happy to see me. I watched his face change several phases as I described to him in great detail my plan to burn in an orgy, my desire for him and my friend. He thought it over. His brain working over his mortality in his head before shaking his head yes.

At first, I allowed my friend to choose the music to which we would have sex with. To which Marco confessed he’d rather keep his shirt on for the orgy that was beginning to feel more like a threesome.

To this, I lost my shit. This was my moment.

I was the one who was medically recommended to remain in quarantine which in reality meant I was clinically undiagnosed with the virus and would surely die eventually. Plus, Marco has a great body and I couldn’t stand to listen to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson as Maui for my anthem-orgy burning. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I made my request known in the politest way I knew how by suggesting something better.

I was passive-aggressive and getting hot. I’d turn the temperature in my room up to a sweltering 84 degrees thinking that it would be an easy transition into the flames that were to come. Foreshadowing because I was a poet and an English major.

It was a beautiful day outside. The second day of pure sunshine. The blinds were closed but the light shone through its cracks. I grabbed Marco’s face and brought it to mine, kissed my friend on the cheek and then the mouth again, this time biting her lip. We then met in the middle of my bed like the Mmf videos on pornhub. The niche-specific fetish I’d researched the day prior.

Our legs were underneath our pants where our hands were worn with the sensation of hairy legs and smooth friend’s thighs. She sighed and removed the glasses from her eyes revealing the pearly whites that held in place her brown eyes. Marcos’s porcelain skin fully exposed from head to toe as he went below creeping on hands and toes till he hit my down below and started slow.

We took turns allowing our hands to become familiar with each other’s bodies, Marco wasting no time to go down on me. As he pulled me inside of him I began spreading my friend’s legs apart stopping only to slather myself with the flammable lubricant.

I hadn’t had sex in a while so when Marco put his dick inside of me I was quickly reminded at why I was celibate-by-association and not for myself. I remember that the pleasure of bottoming was not in being penetrated but being so close to a person, they are literally inside of you. My friend, on the other hand, lived a different lifestyle. I knew she was already stretching her morals by being here with me. I decided to only eat her out so she would remain half a virgin. I thought I was doing a considerable job but she was not letting me off the hook until I found her spot. After which it was a matter of teasing it. We went on like that until she was about to orgasm at which point I stopped. I wanted to be in the middle of the orgasm. We repositioned and went back at it.

The friction from our bodies must have activated the gas. Visible smoke was present on the pores of my skin. Something about the burning flesh simply didn’t do it for me, I couldn’t go through with it any longer. I kept moving my penis in and out of Marco but the thought of my immediate death would not leave my mind. I looked at him ready to finish, however, the only release I was able to conjure came from my eyes. My blurry vision and second thoughts making the ejaculation slow to come. In fact, I didn’t cum at all. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I lost my existence.

The saline from my tears had a hallucinatory effect on my balance, I was no longer able to fuck upright. I knelt and felt the touch of a familiar friend bringing me in for an embrace. Marco held us both as the bed slowly caught fire. As it turns out we weren’t ready to die. Well, my friend and I weren’t. Marco held onto the sheets like he was carrying out a self-fulfilling prophecy. I couldn’t help but feel jealous he was stealing my moment, however, the thought quickly suffocated with my inability to breathe. We left the room, us arm in arm. I turned back to get one final look at Marco. His red hair burning in the room alone. The flames and each strand of his magnificent head illuminating his perfect figure until the shower of him cleared the room of all smoke; I could no longer look away. As he finished, his smile called out to me, my lips unable to close themselves. A true god amongst men.