They were doing it like old times. Their fight from earlier that day dissolved into a distant memory, like a bad dream. And, Stewart was glad.

Slowly, in and out, their bodies heaved and grinded lubricated by dripping sweat and licking tongues.

Her wetness enveloped his piston in a perfect slick layer and made a sucking sound from the vacuum it created, like a crying plea, for the shaft to return upon withdrawal. She moaned as he pushed deeper to fill her completely and against her cervix. Which he felt move.

Wet. It felt so amazing to actually feel her wet supple moist folds. Her wetness ran down from in her in tiny little rivers between his butt cheeks and gathered in an aqueous glob held together by surface tension on his hole. She made him wet now. And, if she chose, his body was ready for her to take him. Giving him the chance to feel like her.

He wondered if she would take it.

Wet. It felt so amazing to feel her warmth when he was inside. Funny. He realized he wasn’t wearing a condom. Funny. That was strange.

He rolled on top to continue but was suddenly distracted.

He was pretty sure both hadn’t come yet which meant he’d have to focus like crazy to make her come while focusing like crazy not to. This was hard as hell because her cervix hitting the head of his penis along with her walls which held his member in a vice grip made him want to let go on every stroke.

Living life as a woman may have been a complicated affair but having sex as a man was schizophrenic. It wasn’t easy like it was for women who could just lie back and enjoy the ride. There was all this duality of purpose: wear the feathers of the peacock but be the pursuer, be strong but also be gentle, spread the seed but only with one girl. And, of course, time your orgasm to perfectly match with hers. Plus if he did come he’d have to worry about quickly getting hard so he could start fucking again before she lost her steam.

It didn’t help matters that every girl was different. A guy could be a sex God with one and a complete tool with another.

Another schizophrenic duality: fuck when you don’t feel like fucking anymore. How could it ever make sense that he wanted to do it with her so badly and then after he came it was the last thing in the world he wanted?

All these things flashed through Stewart’s mind as he made love to her. That and… Jesus! Had he expelled any pre-come? He pulled it out to check. He looked down at his member but it was impossible to tell if the juices on the tip were hers or his.

“Come back. Come back” she said as she pulled him closer.

Why wasn’t he wearing his condom? He always wore his condom. But, no matter, he didn’t want to think about that now as he reentered her.

Yet, another crazy thing: The world could be crumbling around him. He could have just lost his dog, his mom, his job. The girl in bed next to him could be a ageing whore with herpes simplex 1 on her lip and probably worse downstairs, but once the act started nothing, none of it, mattered anymore. Stewart knew Janie didn’t play by those rules. No woman did.

“Harder” she whispered.

The bed creaked and the bedpost hit the wall with a thump as he obliged. Squish was the sound when he entered her.

Thump! Squish! Creak!

Thump! Squish! Creak! … Thrash!… Thrash!

Thrash? It was a faint familiar sound. Stewart hadn’t noticed before but this time it curiously beat to the rhythm of their lovemaking, beating as an ephemeral echo in the distance.

He paused, then penetrated again to verify.

Thump! Squish! Creak! Thrash!

It did!

“Don’t stop. Come back. Come back” Janie exhaled in passionate calling whispers on the edge of orgasm.

He had no idea how close she was when he stopped and walked out of room, so drawn by the sound he strangely didn’t care about her pleasure anymore. That was another odd thing about being a guy; you had to be a mind reader to know where your girl was. And, truth be told, girls were the mind readers, not the guys. If an intuitive girl ever did read her partner’s mind during sex she’d probably see the same one universal thing: he was trying not to let it blow.

He walked into the living room and looked out window.

It was the Troll.

Stewart impotently started watching the bum he named “Troll” a few weeks after he moved into the park adjacent to their four-plex apartment. Sometimes the homeless guy aimlessly broke tree branches and bushes on meaningless tirades. Other times he’d throw rocks and junk into the wash. One time it was a shopping cart. Another it was a bicycle. All the while Stewart stood back and impotently watched.

Some days Janie would come right back in after leaving for work and he’d have to walk her past the Troll who looked drunk as he sprawled, making the park his vacation home - as if lying on his resort beach in the tropics waiting for his Mai Tai arrive. It was a party of one as the vagrant carried on several simultaneous conversations with several internal characters in several nonsensical languages which included interspersed moans, grunts, and groans.

One of those characters in one of those languages may have ordered the Mai Tai but one thing was for certain: the waiter would never come.

Troll was quite a tailor. Quite a bad one, that is. His clothes were a nonsensical mix unfashionably tied together only by the dirt and grime which stained them to oily dark grays. Oily dark grays which matched his face, his hair, and beard that camouflaged him to such an extent that if he happened to step inside a rubbish bin he would become nearly invisible. Everywhere else, and to everyone else, though, he stood out like useless trash.

Troll was quite a talker. Quite an incomprehensible one. All the air through his larynx was devoted to miscommunication. While chucking his rocks or breaking his bushes or flogging his fence he always chucked or broke or flogged with an accompanying incomprehensible chant, repeating it over and over again, like a mantra.

This time it was with his belt, which to Stewart’s looked like a giant phallus, that he used to rhythmatically flog the fence against their beat, interrupting their lovemaking and coming between him and Janie.

Stewart had been impotent in the past. He would not be anymore.

Wet. This time with rivers of sweat streaming down his face. He found himself outside in the park running at full clip directly at Troll who stood at the fence, dumbly entranced, chanting his mantra with a rhythm that now complimented Steward’s footfalls and panting breaths.

He skidded to a hockey stop which sent a dust plume over Troll who looked at him and complained: “Hey!”

Stewart shouted back: “Hey! I need you!”

Then he found himself in the sprint again. This time, chasing Troll who, like him, ran spasmodically with robotic arms and powerful sprinters legs down the wash lined path.

Stewart had never noticed the sheer hilliness of the path before. How it heaved up like Janie’s beautiful perfect breasts then down like the small of her back. Then how it forked like her curvaceous thighs with a gushing water fountain of Venus at her would-be vagina apex.

He sprinted after Troll, through the fountain, their arms and steps in perfect unison like their lovemaking had been to the fence flogging. Together, as their powerful appendages shed Venus’s wetness, they sailed in and out of the fog banks and deeper into a forest Stewart had never seen before.

Neither gaining nor losing ground, he chased Troll through thickening vegetation, over rocks and streams, and along a line of eucalyptus trees. At the end of which, there was a dilapidated shack which was shaded, almost guarded, by a giant paper tree which shed untold countless seasons of leaves and rolls upon rolls of bark over the rotten wood structure.

Into which, without pause, Troll disappeared.

“Got ya!” Stewart joyfully exclaimed as he skipped off a rock and sprinted for the door.

He bust in, throwing his body in the air like a pro linebacker, but after the flimsy door gave way and splintered he hit the floor with an off balance hard thud. His body twisted awkwardly as he rolled across the broken wood floor and knocked his head hard, and saw stars and bright lights.

Instinctively he put up his hands in a defensive posture to ward off attacking blows but when he regained sight he realized it was just him there. Alone. He was alone in the small room covered with layer upon layer of notepaper and scribble that lined the walls. Which the walls seemed to shed like the giant paper tree outside.

Troll forgotten, he ripped a ragged note off the wall and tried to make sense of it, but couldn’t. Like the oral mantras, the written ones were equally unfathomable.

With sheer frustration he pulled off several sheets to get to deeper layers of understanding but could comprehend none of it. Most of the notes were written in completely different languages using foreign letters and symbols. Or, if he could recognize the alphabet the letters made words that were nonsensical, like words with no vowels or words with numbers or letters upside down or spun around.

Faster and faster, he spun furiously ripping meaningless pieces of paper off the walls to get to deeper layers, grasping for a meaning, any meaning. But, none could be found.

Then, from out of nowhere, he heard the sound of a faint thump.

The foul bum instantly flashed back into his mind and he immediately turned back to search for the Troll. He furiously thrashed paper off the walls now to find his rival, looking under the only place there was to hide in the small shack. So determined was he to find him that he manically returned again and again to the fruitless search for a large object in a place much too small to ever possibly contain it.

He felt dizzy. He felt sick to his stomach. Then uncontrollably claustrophobic. He looked for the door but couldn’t find it amongst the piles of shredded paper. He panicked thinking: what if there never even was a door? Then, adding terror on top of his emotional hot fudge sundae, he ripped armfuls of paper off the walls searching for an exit, pounding and kicking the walls and floor, desperately clawing at the rotten wood which buried deep splinters into his fingers and under his nails.

Then, utterly exhausted, bruised, and bleeding, he collapsed. And, as the paper notes gently sailed down all around him and quietly buried him, he put his head down and cried.

squish…

Wait a minute. He knew that sound.

Thump. Squish.

He looked up. He was in his bedroom at the foot of his bed.

Thump. Squish. Creak.

He watched the leg of his bed creep across the floor by a millimeter, answering to the thump.

Thump. Squish. Creak….. Groan. Janie?!?

Thump! Slowly he rose to his knees and saw his own butt arching up then down in a graceful arc. Creak! He saw the bottom of the old inherited bed the springs, weighed heavy, chanting in creaks.

Thump! He watched mesmerized at the thought of seeing himself do it with Janie. He was awed by their steady erotic rhythm mixed with the purity he saw in her eyes and the way she touched him.

It amazed him that he never realized how beautiful the two of them looked making love. How happy they were together. So perfect as they moved as one in their carnal dance. He always thought of it as such a logical thing, lovemaking. As a series of moves and positions. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t at all. It was a dance! They were dancing on waves of passion and emotion that went far beyond the scope of any sex guide.

Why were men so mundane in how they physicalized lovemaking? Just by how she touched him he understood there was far more to it than that.

Sure women could be difficult sometimes but with this new perspective he saw for the first time how purely she really loved him. Look at how she touched him. So gracefully, almost spiritually. And, she had always loved only him. She never wavered about that. So what if sometimes she could be nagging and demanding. All women were nagging and demanding. This one truly loved him. When she made love to him she never had his thoughts of annoyance or effort. She never compared him to or thought of anyone else, like he did. She loved only him. Purely.

He could see that now.

And suddenly his heart sunk feeling heavy and his eyes welled up with tears of gratitude for her. He was thankful to be able to witness her making love to him. So thankful for the unique vantage point and the reminder of how she truly felt about him.

Until he realized it wasn’t him.

Just as suddenly, He froze, simultaneously excited and repulsed. His heart that was pounding hard in his chest now rose into his throat. Making it hard for him to swallow. Making it hard for him to breathe.

It wasn’t him! It was the Troll!

It wasn’t him! How could he think that it was him? It was the Troll fucking Janie! The dirty Troll with his dread lock hair. With his rotten food encrusted beard, and black tongue, and rotten teeth, and bleeding gums kissing her. His hairy arms, his grease covered hands holding her, stroking her. His misshapen lanky body on top of her. Grinding against her. Penetrating her.

Frozen, he stood there. But why the hell was he waiting? Why was he just standing there watching his wife being tortured?

In a flash he formulated his plan of attack instantly envisioning and formulating where to grab him and what bones to break. The tibia or fibula. The radius or ulna.

He had to move in. He had to bust in as he did into the shed and he was ready to pounce but something strange made him take pause. Yet, she was groaning! He was hurting her! She was in pain!

Then he realized the cause of his hesitation. He realized why he waited. They weren’t moans of pain.

They were moans of pleasure!

Of pleasure! With Troll, Janie cried out such songs of ecstasy. Such songs of such desire and passion. Songs of lust from Janie that Stewart never heard before. Sounds that she never made with him.

Frozen, he stood there, a cuckold at the foot of his own bed, watching. The two were too swept away with passion to even notice him.

With glazed over eyes he watched Troll touched her in ways she would never even let him. Lovemaking with her may have always been full of thorns but this filthy bum effectively opened her reluctant flower; the flower that had always been so hesitant with him unfolded sublimely with Troll. Opened magnificently.

Janie heaved and sighed. She moved faster grinding against the creature. Then she made a different sound. A sound Steward knew though maybe not as well as he would have liked; he knew the meaning of that carnal moan even though he didn’t hear it every time they made love. She was about to come. And, not like with him but just so easily. So effortlessly. And, he could tell that the Troll couldn’t care less. That he wasn’t even trying.

If anything, that’s what really killed him. That’s what really propelled him into motion as he threw himself onto the bed in the final act of their ménage à trois. To execute his plan to perfection.

He ripped Troll off her not caring that with this worthless vagrant Janie was finally so opened and realized as a woman. He tore into him not caring he was tearing her away from her perfect lover. His only desire was to bring the plan to quick fruition and vanquish his enemy. The creek was replaced with the snap of bones shattering. The thump turned into an elbow into a solar plexus, of a pinkie snapping off backwards at the knuckle, of two fingers penetrating into the valley of a throat, of the snap of ears pulled off, of the tear of a nose grabbed at the base and cartridge ripped up to the forehead, of the pop-pop of a jaw hyper-extended and yanked out of joint.

Stewart attacked, blinded with rage, until his opponent no longer moved, no longer gasped, no longer could breathe but just lay there so mutilated and mangled and thoroughly destroyed, as not to be recognizable anymore.

He heaved a sigh and dropped his head, exhausted.

Janie had been silent the whole time. Her perfect lover never even fought back. Would she jump on his back and beat on him for so easily besting her beloved Don Juan? It was strange that throughout it all they both were so quiet. She hadn’t uttered a word. He not a single chant.

Stewart couldn’t tell if he loved her or hated her anymore. He didn’t know how they would go on or if they would. But he had to see her before he dealt with the repercussions of this.

He looked up from the bloody carnage.

And, there he saw Troll staring back at him dumbly and mute for the first time. He was nude with his belt swinging between his legs where his penis should have been.

Afraid to look down then compelled to, Stewart peaked out of the corner of his eye and threw his eyelashes saw what looked like a fork in the road.

He slammed his eyes shut and willed his hands to reach down as he looked away and his mouth opened in a silent scream of anguish. He felt what he could only guess to be gushy brain matter. He felt intestine. He touched something that heaved up like the path when he chased after Troll. Heaved up like a breast.

Then a slaughterhouse stench filled his nose and he started to gag. He couldn’t take it anymore. In mad desperation his eyes popped open and dilated. Like a madman he threw up the mounds and mounds of sinew and tissue which stained the room crimson and rained down in a torrent of red.

Down, among the pool of bile, among the many pools of blood, and under chunks of skull, of tissue, of parts not even identifiable anymore. Down under the mess and next to a perforated larynx and covered in blood, he saw a face. He saw-

“Janie” said the Troll.

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