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You watch the wet night swallow Satomi whole. Tweed skirt all wrinkled and off kilter, oversized pale yellow polo only half tucked in. She dresses like a girl who doesn't know how to dress, but was bullied for this very crime a few years back, enough so she took a stab at learning the elusive art of fashion without really understanding its fundamentals. The result is cock-eyed charming effort, but ultimately failing marks. You understand—you were the same kind of girl, when you were young. Maybe that's why this terrible thing has happened with Satomi: you saw yourself, reached out to touch in recognition. But the recognition went too far, so the touch did, too. Corroded, transmuted. Now, you're here. Your own shirt in your lap, still warm from her skin, still smeared in her blood.
When you were seven or eight, you watched your school friend's hamster while she was on holiday in the states. You tried your hardest to take care of it. Fluffy white round thing, with seal point ears and nubbin tail, cute and little and easy enough to not fuck up. You kept it's water bottle full and wiped it clear of algae, you fed it seeds in a purple ceramic dish. You cleared out the shit and soiled shavings once every few days and replaced them with fresh bedding. You took the hamster out and let it crawl all over your arms with its little tickling feet. You were responsible.
On the last day when your friend flew back, you allowed the hamster one final outing in its translucent ball . When you reached in to scoop it out and set it back in its cage, it somehow darted past you and squeezed out. You chased it, drove it around the room, determined not to lose it. When you finally cornered it you thrust out an arm, grabbed it, squeezed tight so it wouldn't get away. They were like liquid, you had learned this: capable of morphing their bodies into impossible shapes and slipping free from even the firmest grasp, so you held on hard, then harder. It stopped struggling, went limp in your fist.
You had to put the body in a Tupperware, explain to your friend it had been fine the whole trip, and only in your desperation to keep it safe had you applied too much pressure to it's tiny body, and accidentally killed it.
That was what happened, with Satomi. Your gripped her too tight. You wanted to help too much. You swore to yourself you wouldn't go crazy about it, but here you are, definitely fucking crazy. Your hand shakes as you light up. You can smell your own cunt on your fingers. You could smell hers, too, when she lifted her skirt to fucking show it to you. God. Puffy little lips open like a bao bun over the blood stained ridge of your formerly pressed shirt collar. Wispy black hair, so thin you could see how friction-pink she was through it. Totally illegal, and totally perfect.
The cigarette doesn't even taste any good, because it's not Satomi-chan's slit. Your preferences have been whittled, narrowed to impossible things. How did this happen? Who—who falls in love with a fourteen year old girl? Who undresses in front of one? Touches herself to one? Sears the image of one into ones retinas for safekeeping?
A pervert, that's who. A criminal. Or—a crazy man. You took your name for a reason. You have always known what you are, under the flaking ash-layers of smoked through tobacco and wrong-fitting womanhood.
You wait until she has for certain disappeared inside her friend's house. Then, you resolutely put your cigarette out in the ash tray you keep in your glove compartment.
You hold the shirt up, you study the Rorschach blots of blood-streaked girlcum she left all over it. So fucking sweet and sour as you bury your face into the fabric, sucking tremulous inhalations of her puberty into your greedy lungs. Yogurt tartness, freshly cut grass, ripe BO, copper. You suck her from the fibers, find her salt, her spice, her metal with your tongue. You pretend it's not some touched holy relic but the real saint, the real Satomi. Your hand shoves back into the front of your trousers where you're still sloppy from the last time you came, no more than a half hour ago, quietly, seismically with your eyes drinking her in the way drought-cracked earth drinks rain.
You rub yourself furiously and it takes what—one minute? Two? Less? Forty seconds? You push your clit like an elevator button and zing to the top story of a skyscraper on hot cables. You press it and you press it, use your clit for morse code, spell out Satomi's name. Come once, twice, another time moaning into the stink of her on your shirt.
You thought love was sweet because you'd never been in it before. You thought it was roses and chocolates and dates and sappy songs. Turns out it' a volcano in your brain, a black hole in your cunt. Pulverizing matter, sucking her in. An inverted channel of fire you throw yourself into over and over again, even if it's illegal, even if you know you shouldn't, even if you can't.
You didn't think it would kill you, when you saw her choir singing on risers in an auditorium and thought, aw, the one in the glasses is so cute. You didn't think it would eat your brain, burn up your body. You thought you'd be able to keep sight of what mattered, you thought you'd be able to scold yourself in time like hey, don't think about her like that, she's just a kid, you really can't do it. But you were really stupid. A stupid fucking volcano, an idiot black hole. Lunacy to imagine you'd retain the power of logic in all this. That you could stop yourself from feeling what you felt. That you'd be able to stop yourself at all.
The rain comes down harder, steams off the Century's hood. Your hand down your pants, still twisting your clit where your heartbeat throbs for her. You lift your hips and wriggle out of the spring trap of your trousers, make enough room to shove the shirt into the vacancy between your quaking thighs. You fit your cunt to the place hers was, your lips kissing Satomi's bloody ghost. You actually can't even think of Satomi's pussy as a cunt— she's just a little unripe peach, a cherry blossom bud only beginning to unfurl. You'd make it into a cunt, if you ever got to taste it. Work it open on your tongue and fingers, coaxing her blood out, making her puffy and swollen and fat and begging. You'd fuck her cherry out, you'd find her pulse up the velvet clench of her tight little asshole, making her come so many times it wouldn't even be tight anymore. All her cinched places slack and soaked, because of you. Her atoms destroyed in your black hole, her hair aflame in a halo at the apex of your volcano.
You come again, her name on your lips. You don't remember when you last came so many times in a row. Your body doesn't do it anymore, you thought you were beginning to dry up and you were ok with that. The last few times you fucked you kept all your clothes on. Knelt between an American heiress's legs and put your mouth to work, then the same thing for a different, richer, older woman your boss needed you to sweeten up for some deal. You never minded, you loved to eat pussy. It was enough for you just to do it like a service. Taste a woman, make her feel good, and then feel good yourself simply because you accomplished something miraculous. A job well done. When you were younger, you'd make yourself come while you licked them, grinding against the heel of your hand or the base of that vibrating strap you'd lost some years back on a trip to Hong Kong. But you didn't even bother anymore. Too tired, wrist too achy from the way your watch bit into it. So this—over and over again, orgasms stacked like coins, so many you lose track and your quads are jelly and you're slick with sweat— it's unheard of. You're a teenager again because of that peach, that cherry blossom. Love didn't just make you stupid, it made you young.
You fold over the steering wheel, panting. Each minute shift of your hips sends electricity through your body. Clit so swollen it hurts. Her little mouth would make it feel better. Always frowning, always pinched. But you could make it so soft and wet, if you were to kiss it. You'd show her how to use her tongue, her lips. Actually, you wouldn't, because you never expect reciprocity from the women you fuck. You'd keep your clothes on, your hand jammed down your pants, you'd hold back, you're good at holding back, you have to be.
The thing is—you saw the way she looked at you, when she lifted her shirt. She wasn't just turned on, you turned her on. Part of her wanted you, maybe not consciously, but truly. You knew that look in a girl's eyes, you've been hunting it since you were her age. She wants you, but not because you're inherently wantable, but because she's a kid and you're an adult and you slipped into her life and wouldn't leave her alone. You made her want you, because you want her. You dragged her into this volcano, you siphoned her into this black hole. It's not fair to her, you know it. But you've learned love isn't fair, just like it isn't sweet. It's insane and selfish, it has rabies or encephalitis, it's high on fucking drugs.It's wild and it wants and it wants and it wants.
You come again, you groan, you tremble. In your brain Satomi is a chicken wing, fried to perfection and dripping spicy sauce. You strip all her flesh off with your teeth, the bubbled fatty skin, the tendons and connective tissue and gristle and she's all over your face and still, you're not done, it isn't enough. You crack her bones, you suck out her marrow. You imagine her under you, panting and doused in sweat, stomach a perfect concave to straddle, titbuds puffy and sweet and ripe for tweaking and sucking and she showed them to you, she did that, how in the hell are you supposed to survive when she showed you parts of her she should have not have shown? Her heaving chest, her puffy not-yet-cunt. Her hips moving, humping your shirt like she should be humping your tongue. The honeycomb bones splinter in your teeth, catch in your throat. You swallow, so Satomi can swim in your stomach acid. You can't breathe, so you work on that. Shaking, hand cramped, all wet as you come again, and come down hard from coming.
In surreal increments you realize there are no bones, no marrow, no chicken wings. The storm clears. In a slow, terrible wave the reality hits you: you're parked outside Satomi's school friend's house masturbating like a pervert. Because you are a pervert. You are a pervert rubbing your cunt in the street outside a middle schooler's fucking house, because you have fallen in love with a middle schooler, which is something only a pervert is capable of doing. Ever since you were a kid, all you've done is fuck up. Crush small animals to death in your effort to spare them danger.
Slouching back against the driver's seat, back sweaty in the itching prison of your suit jacket. It will need to be dry cleaned, you've poured into it. The whole outfit. But the shirt—you're never washing that. It's all you can have of her, you decide. Because this is it. You've already gone too far, you can't claw your way out of the volcano into its caldera, you've incinerated, you're charred dust.
But you can refuse to go no further. Stop just short of touching her. This way, she stays pure: unburnt. Singed, maybe, bleeding now. But intact. "Satomi-chan," you say quietly to the rain. "I'll keep you safe. I'll go to jail before I crush you like the hamster, ok?" The rain doesn't answer, it only evaporates off the sleeping engine of your car. Your eyes flutter closed, and you still see her. You shove the image out—this stops here, now. You'll keep your shirt on. You'll keep your mouth closed.
With sticky hands you turn the key in the ignition and drive home, instead of off a cliff. Maybe it's better, maybe it's not. It's hard to tell, when the world has been laid waste to by forced beyond your mere human understanding. Rabies, encephalitis, drugs, love.