Headless by Benjamin Weissman

just grip the freak with all your might and then bite it. So I did that for a while, and then he screams, Oh, mother of God, and blasts the works down my throat … whatever, fucking on the snow would’ve been tricky. He tasted like a broccoli. Kind of like oceanic wheat grass. Then he lies down and says, Spray me, baby. So I redrop trou and tinkle out what remains in my bladder, right in his mouth. Oh yeah, he says, World Cup tequila, give me more. I grab his ears and grind my pelvis into his mouth. Then I start riding his nose, first slowly to make sure he’s into it, and when I hear him groan in a positive manner and mumble something, I crank the volume full blast and totally go off on his face and clitpound the poor boy. He hangs with me to the bitter end. I’m not fast. A cloud descends on us and it begins to snow. I get off his face and huge snowflakes float from the sky and land on his wet face. You look like a glazed donut, I say. Dusted with sugar, he says. Then I lie on my back and watch the big flakes fall slo-mo, very psychedelic. He stands over me and goes for it right in my face, a torrent of hot yellow, 98.6 degrees, at least 30 seconds worth. I close my eyes, the spray is insane. When he’s done he offers me a handkerchief. How sweet. I decline, lick my lips, unzip my chest pocket, pull out a doob, and fire it up. One puff by Bumpy bleeds it down to a roach. Our minds are baked, our hearts … hmm. I stood up, lightheaded. Time to make some turns. We got back on our skis. All right, X-Screams, he said, how do you like them? They’re killer, I say, how do you like your Bandits? Sweet, he said, lifting up the tail of his right ski. Cool, we kind of said together, like we were totally in sync, me, blushing like a freak. I take off. Snow so fine. He follows. Tear it up, Little Ripper, he yells. No one’s ever called me that.
    3.
    When my sorority planned a ski trip I had no idea I was in for such a rowdy carnal encounter. I told my girlfriends, I don’t swallow sperm. They looked at me like I was insane. There’s pressure from every side. The world insists that I rejoice in it, that I swallow the gross glop, smack my lips, and ask for another helping. But anyway, what’s a Gondola? The Puffs, that’s the name of our group, they said. You’re lucky we’re letting you come along, stupid prude. I swear … I like guys, I just don’t think it’s cool if they cum in your mouth. Why should I have to swallow something that isn’t really nutritious? My objection is I don’t like squishy foods, old bananas, custards, or any type of thick, room temp beverages. But I hear sperm is good for your complexion, so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll massage it into my skin if I have to. I hate this entire flow of words but I might as well continue. What happened to me is … I was riding up the Gondola (is that Italian for something?) with five big men. Out of the blue, no provocation from me, they all pull their cocks out and start masturbating. I was just looking out the window, minding my own business, but then I got this sudden curiosity, maybe I won’t hate it. Maybe spode tastes good. I eat a lot of fast foods. I like lots of salt on my popcorn, maybe boy jizz is really salty like that, and since five guys are masturbating in this Gondola contraption, I might as well have a European adventure at this Mammoth Resort, and sample; plus I’m on vacation and a wild experience is something I promised myself this weekend. I just kind of kneeled in the center and let it all happen. One guy named Bob said he was ready to shoot. I said, Don’t use that terminology, please, violent guys are a turnoff. He apologized and said, Quick cash. That’s better, I said. Then another guy who introduced himself as Robert stood up and said, Fry that thing. Bob came on my shoulder and Robert in my hair. Fabulous. Then the other Bob, who had the queerest method of doing himself, like he was trying to jimmy open a broken door, dripped