Gay Vacation

An old friend from high school is visiting me. My basement room to my house goes on and on. It turns corners, opens into new rooms, some with water damage, others just cluttered messes with the floor covered with clothes, Barbie dolls, strips of cardboard, insulation, broken bits of pottery. He and I are running through the house, carrying a mattress. We set it down on the floor next to a pile of rags with a smell like oven cleaner. I pull off his pants. – We’ve got to be quiet, I laugh. I stroke his penis. – Blow me, I say. – You’re a maniac, he laughs. – Yes, I say, pushing his face down and feeling a warm, cool, a warm, cool, something like bliss. I’m on a gay vacation: this is normal; this is normal. I’m fucking his face and the fumes are rising that will burn our lungs.