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Drifted Love

A sticky love story featuring porn, drugs, and rough streets

By Arem DaichPublished 2 years ago 19 min read
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An orifice. Author's source.

When I got home after that mugging, my elbows and palms bled like when you rasp them with a cheese grater. Nothing critical, but I needed a bandage I stored in a rugged, duct tape reinforced shoebox with other, rarely used items. I also found iodine in the box, so I sanitised the injury. Then, as I bandaged my wounds, I saw in that shoebox an old bottle of poppers we bought with my ex. You know, to pepper the thing a bit.

I secured the bandage and watched some porn doing the old up down up down business to ease the nerves. And, just because it laid there, I sniffed some of the poppers too. Wow. Imagine you haven’t had sex or masturbated for a month. It’s all you can think about, and you’ve had several wet dreams. Then watch porn and jerk off. You’re superaroused, feeling every move, every thrust feels a hundred times better than usual, and time stretches as you finally ejaculate. That’s what popper feels like, without waiting a month.

Now, the way you use it: you watch porn and masturbate, then, just before the climax, you sniff some. You’ll understand what kind of liquid miracle I’m talking about. No physical dependency except the incredible orgasm. Low chance of side effects, despite the toxic if swallowed or inhaled label on the bottle of poppers. A legal requirement because alkyl nitrites can’t be sold for human consumption under the UK Medicines Act 1968. So, merchants sell poppers as room odourisers, but everyone odourise only their noses with it. After you inhale it, the alkyl nitrites drop your blood pressure by relaxing your muscles, hence the pleasure. Gays use it to loosen up before anal sex, but straight folks can have lots of fun with it too.

The time I sniffed the poppers after that beating, I became the sex itself in front of my screen with other people ahh uh oooh yes yes yes deeper hecking. A digital orgy, and I connected to it via Bluetooth headphones. The bottle of lubricant, also after my ex, made it even more real. Moist and slippery, just like the human fleshy cavities. Finally, the climax. Just a complete acceptance of my penis in my blood-soaked bandaged palm and surrendering to the orgasm just when the guy came into her mouth and I with him. She went hmmmmm, and it felt like no orgy, but like she swallowed the baby juice just for me.

Over the following days, I became proficient with poppers, or alkyl nitrites. You could tell because the bottle became slimy of frequent use.

The downside is that your drug tolerance increases. Poppers won’t ruin you financially, but you need to sniff more and explore new movies to keep the libido. You no longer sniff only before the climax. You inhale from start to finish with throbbing manhood in your hand to the beat of fornicating virtual strangers. And regular porn gets boring, so then you have videos specially made for poppers or popperbates. Once you do them, you won’t regret you’re single. But you know, otherworldly orgasm and self-exploration sound great, but it can take you to some dark places.

Let me now talk about that evening of 2020. In frosty streets, I wear a jumper, jacket, and knitted hat. Street lighting illuminates the streets. But I regard the cold and darkness as worth the trouble of dressing up because nobody peaks out. I like that because I live among gangsters, drug dealers, junkies, and violent young males. Me, none of it. Just a regular, almost law-abiding citizen. Anyway, I like the cold and lonely streets, so I can smoke weed undisturbed.

After breaking up with my ex, getting high on weed became another activity I enjoyed. She hated cannabis, so now I cherish it even more because you only appreciate certain things after you lose them. So, I’m going stoned home that evening. I notice seven guys standing around, maybe ten parked cars away. All dressed black. They are looking at me. I keep walking like hypnotised. My heart is lup-dup lup-dup lup-dup lup-duping like a throbbing erection. I know they’re up to something. If I turn back, it may provoke them, and they will chase me. If I go straight, I’ll have a chance to chat with them.

Seven cars. We stare at each other. I lower my head. Mistake. After eight heartbeats, I put my head up.

Five cars. I don’t know if I hallucinate or what, but I see that from a side street between the guys and me walks a woman with blonde hair towards their direction.

I stopped, and she did too. I noticed something peculiarly odd about her. Then I noticed the guys stood maybe like two parked cars from her.

Now, I really ought to illustrate to you what type of neighbourhood I lived in, to understand my motives to act how I have acted. Two months before the blonde woman, I was cycling stoned through a park. The sun setting soon. Five geezers played with something in front of a static camera. Maybe podcast. They also had bikes, fellow cyclists, I thought. I listened to birds and looked at the reddening clouds.

They say red clouds mean blood is about to spill. Not my blood, huh, my home is near, I said, but didn’t pay attention to the five geezers or the narrow section of road. On my right: dense shrub. And on the left side: the geezers with the camera and bicycles. I counted one, two, three, four bikes as I approached them. One of them looked at me. Too late to notice that he threw his bike under the mine. I flew over the handlebars, covering my head and landing on my palms, elbows and knees. That’s how I got those injuries on palms and elbows, like when you rasp your skin with a cheese grater. Or tarmac.

“Say hello to YouTube Gang Pros, dickhead!” Shouted at me the geezer who threw the bike. He rolled his bandana up. The other three reached for blades. The fifth guy operated the camera pointed at me.

“Gimme your fucking money, or I’ll fucking kill you!” he went on. I jumped up and ran as fast as I could, leaving them the bicycle. I looked behind. I saw their silhouettes in the setting sun; they didn’t chase me. I assessed my situation. No serious injuries, but my bum muscle loosened during the impact head on the tarmac, and I soiled my underpants. Talk about adding an insult to the injury. One mile to get home. I hope you begin to see that my emotional distress justified the use of porn and poppers later that day and following weeks.

And the month before that! I broke up with my Swedish girlfriend over my remarks about feminism. She wasn’t getting the working class banter, but said things like: “What the heck, mate? Elon Musk builds space dicks!” or “Back off, mate, it’s my period!” I appreciated she doesn’t behave too girly, but when she started growing underarm hair, powerlifting and burping vanilla flavour protein shakes, we sort of ended it.

The police investigated crime in my neighbourhood at least once a week. Our neighbourhood reported the most criminal activity in the whole country. I started to go shopping once a week early in the morning to avoid people. I installed a mirror into my window to see around the corner.

Next to my bed dangled my Rambo knife. Finally. My ex couldn’t stand me sleeping with the Rambo knife next to my head. Not even after I read her the murder and rape count every night. I thought Swedish girl would have a sense for nature, fire and knives - wrong. She worried more about our pay equality, which wasn’t equal because I worked as a groundworker, rain, snow, or scorching sun, making the same money as her typing social media posts for a Dutch oil corporation. She called it a social media expert, but all she experted was answering to trolls.

But that’s all gone, and I had the Rambo knife next to my head. I would smoke some and then watch videos. I watched videos of how burglars get into locked houses. They took a sledgehammer and battered the door. Slam! Unless you have a safety door, they get through it like an underage boy through an 18+ verification.

We didn’t have a safety door. I ordered smoke grenades instead. I’d throw them and then counter with my Rambo knife if our house went under attack.

You think I’m over the top but listen to this: One night, a group of guys stood in front of my window, smoking and talking. I know they were talking because I could hear them clearly in my room through the shut window. I looked at them, three of them, they looked at me. One of them smiled and gave a thumb’s up. I showed thumb’s up too. He stopped smiling and slid around his neck with his thumb. I drew the curtains. They laughed.

Look, I’ve got nothing against gay people, but they gross me out. I could picture it sticking it into the dude’s anal, and the other way round depends on size, I guess. But that’s not what disgusts me. Not even the penis swordplay grosses me out. It’s going through the body of a man and instead of boobs, just feel hair and flat nipples. And I’d look at him, and he has stubble that brushes against my face as he sticks tongue into my mouth, and I want to scrape my tongue just from the thought of it. So in no way I’m gay.

But hey, once you try the prostate tickler on poppers, you’ll experience something only XTC could approach. Such a good feeling to wank and have a robotic rubber friend tickle your intimate rear parts. You wouldn’t believe how ecstatic you can make the orgasm. Almost as if a girl licks your bum while giving you a handjob. But add into that sniffing of that miraculous substance from my moist fingers, and you’ll approach something no girl, no matter her tongue skills, will ever give you.

Soon I watched all the available good and average popperbates, and I wanted something new. I asked on the forum, and someone suggested bigger toys and bi-sexual training videos - popper edition. When you’re three months home home home because of The Pandemic, getting paid for it to keep us from revolting, you can’t go out because your own neighbourhood wants to kill you, and you’re high on weed and poppers, you say yes yes yes to anything. Besides, exploring my sexuality seemed like an essential part of coping with the hostility around me.

So I ordered bigger toys and added a cockring and vacuum pump to get free delivery. In three working days, I received a tool that the manufacturer called a Big Bertha for an apparent reason. The very same night, I got dangerously high on porn and poppers and trained my anus with Big Bertha and masturbated, laying on my back with legs tall and my dick right at my face and SPLASH! SQUIRT!

It was a clear ten-point facial, half of it landing in my open mouth. I surpassed that feeling to spit it out and remembered the cum eating instructions I was watching earlier that day: “Cum is good for you. You’re a cum eater. Cum has all the vitamins you need. Eat your cum.”

So I did swallow the load. The other half trickled down my face. I carefully pulled out Big Bertha. Floop flop flopp.

Oooooh.

They, too, were still ooohing and aahing in my headphones. My penis was fading even with the cockring on. But I was still high; my vision blurred. I think I sniffed too much. The inside of my head was banging to the rhythm of the copulating strangers. The only thing I could see clearly was the shimmering screen with two bodies rubbing against each other. My head was ringing, my ass gaping, my fingers shaky, my face wet, my penis looked like a slug I caught in my hand.

Then, the room became darker, and out of the alkyl nitrite overdose came a chemical-like clarity of mind, and I said to myself: “The sexual drive is a powerful force, and it’s foolish to let it trickle between fingers. Porn is like the fast-food for the mind, and I’m the spectator behind the screen, jerking away my freedom.”

The feeling of substance was wearing off. I switched on the laptop’s camera to see myself. I saw my cum-sprayed face and sodomised asshole. This is what I exchanged for a relationship with an actual human. None of the problems got solved, one was added.

The headache and shakes ceased. The vision focused again, and I felt insufficiency of myself to myself. A void. I sniffed this thing a month ago for the first time, and I haven’t stopped since. My room looked and smelled like an amateur sex dungeon.

So I said stop.

I burned that damned liquid and paid for a parental block to porn websites. Then, I made an online dating profile and began to look for a date. I’ve never done it before. But the girls there seemed friendly, and soon I clicked with one. We chatted some and asked some more and more private questions like zodiac signs or favourite sexual positions. Then it seemed like a good time to take her out. So we did as we could: in a hotel room.

I really want you to understand just how much a human touch can mean in such a horrible place I used to live in. When the whole world turned into the pixels except the hostile city trying to murder me, a human touch meant that I knew I was not alone. An acceptance by someone. I didn’t need love, I needed a touch.

I wasn’t expecting too much from that date in the hotel room. Latino, dark hair, and red lipstick. Beige coat. And brown fedora hat. Black boots and a black case instead of a handbag. I helped her out of the coat. She looked just like in her pictures. She smelled like bubblegum. Lovely curvature. Under the coat, she had just a pink top with a deep v-cut. Jean skirt with “KAPOW” patch in front and fishnet tights. Her nails were painted black, fake. She had a black choker necklace. Not that I’d be too fond of makeup and stuff, but she wasn’t your typical girly girl either, and I liked all of this style of hers. Besides, when all you see is violence, you want somebody feminine to caress your soul.

She hugged me. Me too.

We went to the table. I took out the Champagne with the cooler and raspberries from the refrigerator. Just as we planned it. We chatted about the weather and movies. It was raining and getting dark. I lit two candles.

“The view is pretty here,” she, let’s call her T., said and continued, “why don’t you feed me one of those strawberries?” And she drank from her glass.

I took one of the strawberries and put it into her mouth, she giggled.

“Now, I will feed you!” She said and took the strawberry and held it with her lips. I stood up, walked to her, kissed her, we both bit the strawberry, the juices poured into our mouths, and we mushed hard not to let any of the juices drip out.

“Mmmmm, how about a bit of fun?” She said.

I smiled. T. stood, drank some more, gave me a ten Pound bill and told me to roll it. She took some coke from her black case and made two lines. This wasn’t in the plan, but I didn’t protest. It seemed like a good idea. She snorted it. I snorted it. Tingle tingly up my nose to the brain and whack! The dopamine went went went mad.

We started kissing like two horny teenagers heading towards the bed. My hands were all over her fine smooth boobs, her hands on my cock. She sits me on the bed, sits in my lap, her tits in my face.

“Do you like them?” T. says with a smile.

“I love them,” I answer, looking at her eyes, full of light and lust and fake eyelashes glue.

“Why don’t you taste them?” And she grabs my head and plunges it right into her tits. I lick it and suck it and try to get them out of her pink top, ripping it.

“Careful tiger!”

“Grrrrrr, raaa!”

We sniffed some more. Boink right into the pleasure brain! You can feel it doing bzzzz. And going bzzzz bzzzz berserk after each other’s bodies like hungry lizards high on poppers, coke and Champagne. She made me to ah ah ah ah almost come, but never quite, she certainly knew where to kiss and what to touch. As I said, it’s all about the size and what grosses me about males is the flat hairy chest and stubble, and she had none of it, hairless like a doll with silicone B cups. And I didn’t mind Adam’s apple still in her throat. And her size was nothing like the Big Bertha, more like prostate tickler although much more pleasurable to taste, unlike the rubber. And then, she did anus-pelvis-testicles-penis all-in-one blowjob. It was warm and sloppy and squishy, oh yeah. She knew exactly what to do, better than any girl because no natural girl knows where exactly are the sensory receptors on your penis. And then, in the most slippery moment, she would give me a bottle of poppers, not so much to increase that already explosive pleasure, but to loosen my anus and in she went with her pre-op remnant of what she used to be. And as she fucked me with deliberate thrusts, she would stroke my own supererected penis in the same rhythm, and I couldn’t do anything but surrender to that feeling of complete love and acceptance of my own twenty-first-century humanity. Then she pulled out, pulled out her condom and cum over my sweaty body and the moment she went, I came with ferocity and sprayed the ceiling ah uh oh, and she would keep stroking just right to the end when the last drop was out, kissing my nipples and ears.

We showered, separately. She kissed me on the forehead and said, “call you later, tiger,” and left. I left a few hours later.

That’s why I decided to move out. Screw that city. It wasn’t the same with T. after the third date anyway. We didn’t see each other after that. The void became the same with T., maybe voider, as when I just did it in front of the screen. Just empty pleasure that sticks to you like sperm-soaked cloth.

I got sick of that, and all I had my head filled with were porn images of dicks, and pussies, assholes, tits, screaming, cumshots, blowjobs, deepthroats, tit fucks, sperm swaps, pussy squirting, 666 fetishes of Miss Paine, ruined orgasms, domination, hairy Asian pussies, hentai, busty black mamas fucking fragile white boys, shemales, and petite teenagers, threesome, orgy, snot fetish and shit too, feet jerking, MILFs, POVs, JOIs, CEIs, PMVs, cock heroes, midgets, pregnant, in teacher uniform, or with tentacles dressed like octopus, and in prison too, on ice, beach, sand dune, space module, parliament, inside the toilet bowl, Mars, the Lost World, The Simpsons, your kitchen, haunted house, circus freak show, and in every conceivable reality of Rick and Morty there’s porn from there, with bloody pickles, gearbox men, and assassins from Asgard. And my head was brimming with all of it, terabytes of porn uploaded on the most complex computing tool: the human brain. And my room became a gallery full of cockrings, dildos, ticklers, lubrication and sperm clothes. On my table was sitting Big Bertha with slimy bits all over it, and the whole room smelled like a crotch if you don’t wash it for a week. Suddenly, the vanilla shake burp didn’t smell so bad.

I thought that moving would change something. Like it would somehow erase and rewrite my memory. Like I would not at all just drag all of my problems to the new location. Surely moving to another area would solve my issues. But it doesn’t matter now, because I think the seven guys are about to run towards the blonde woman.

What would you do in my situation? Try to help some random blonde woman and risk your life? From what I know, she might be a serial killer. Frankly, I appreciated that between the seven guys and me walked somebody else. I might get out without harm from this, I thought. You could see every fraction of movement in that cold night illuminated by the yellow streetlight. They straightened their backs, puffed up chests and looked around. They looked at each other. Why is she not running yet? For fuck’s sake, don’t just stand there. No, that blonde woman just stands there and shakes, like a rabbit in the middle of the road paralysed by fear of an oncoming lorry, and the seven guys start pacing to her.

So...

As she was shaking, I shouted: “OI!”

And they answered: “WHAT?!”

And she creamed: “AAAAAA!”

And I shouted: “WHAT’S GOING ON?”

And they hollered: “WHO DA FUCK ARE YOU?”

And she howled: “AAAAAA!”

And I yelled: “NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.”

And she finally started to run in my direction.

And they didn’t wait for another yelp and ran forward.

Perhaps I was too stoned. Or maybe I felt justified to get punched in my face, but then it was too late to run anyway, so I just braced for the impact. Bosh! I landed on my back and received numerous kicks, and at some point, it felt like if my Rambo knife would stab me right into my spine, ouch, I spasmed and jerked like penis before the climax and then didn’t move, so that the guys thought I’m dead and left.

I survived. But they fractured my lumbar vertebrae, and I’m in a wheelchair. My urinary tract doesn’t work either, so I have to carry a piss bag. And it’s impossible to get an erection, which seems like a permanent injury. But I don’t mind because after I got beaten, the blonde woman called an ambulance, and she gave me her number. I didn’t call her, but she did call me through the hospital. She was grateful I saved her life. We agreed to meet.

We met in a cafe: An impotent, disabled guy and gorgeous blonde with a missing arm. That’s what was peculiarly odd about her: she has no arm. Her name is Monique, and she has a great sense of humour.

One month later, I was in a wheelchair with her in a sea town, watching waves and learning to walk again in a bungalow we rent. That was six months ago from today. I smoke medical weed to ease my pain, I grow it myself, and it’s almost legal. We make a living making necklaces from driftwood, we called our business Drifted Love, and people love our story and jewellery. We have recently made a necklace for Mia Khalifa, would you believe it? It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to start a family. Although I can’t have an erection, I still produce sperm, so doctors can fertilise Monique’s egg.

I really cannot complain; I’m the happiest I ever was. I mean happy happy, with sea salt in my hair and a real human being that I love, and she loves me.

taboo
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About the Creator

Arem Daich

I write anything in the transgressive genre. Poetry, fiction, non-fiction. Essays, emails, descriptions. Manuals, essays, transcriptions. I'm the author of Brain Fissures and Crippled Love, available on my outlandish blog: aremdaich.com

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