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Date Posted: 18:19:25 01/02/02 Wed
Perry awoke that morning with this sentence running
trippingly through his mind, "You're a weak sister, mister." He
awoke laughing in his dorm room. Summer was full out and green
was everywhere. It was early and the sun was just getting up.
There was a fly in his room. Buzzing about his head. He
remembered the Mad magazine send up of "Psycho" in which the
end panel shows Norman Bates' mother's stuffed corpse being
turned around in her chair in the basement, and it's Jack
Webb--ten four, Sgt. Friday--with crossed eyes, in a dress, with a
fly buzzing around his head. Which made Perry laugh even
harder. Out loud. Holding nothing in. Hysterical. Which made
him think of the song that was big for about a minute and a half
some years prior, "They're Coming to Take Me Away Ha Ha Ho
Ho He He." Which really brought him to convulsions. Perry was
of youth and the summer early June. He was naked in bed and
seductive and comely. Because he was a horntoad and he was
loved and lusted after and he did everything right.
He was tall, gangly, had dark hair a bit long, a fresh face,
a fresh mouth, creamy complexion, a regulation six incher, but a
damn fine looking one, balls a little bit bigger than you might
think on such a thin boy, he did not have a Southern accent like
the other hayseeds around here, though he had been born 10 miles
from this college and had lived there all his life. He was proudly
bisexual (though leaning more to homosexual, still kidding
himself a bit about it though.) He always had a hard on. He had a
hard on now. He hoped he did not grow heavy. He worried that
at age 20 he would be saying goodbye to Lynn and Carter and
Chris and Merry who would somehow or other stay young.
Because he was also a boy/man wrapped up in himself and feared
the years making the package of himself undone. So because he
could get sad as hell too sometimes, he flipped on his bedside
light, and played with his dick for a while. He loved how perfectly
it had been manufactured. Loved the slit of it and the heft of it,
the veins in the shaft. He loved the growing of it. The stages it
had gone through. The delight when he started to be able to make
a little clear cum liquid of it. The time he noticed, in the locked
bathroom, as he lay, naked, on the soft bath mat, that a bit of fuzz
was growing above it.. He loved how it could do perfectly
marvelous things just by his willing it to. He did it now. Hands
off. Just like a fakir making a rope dance in the air, twirling up
into the hot noon day sun. It made him laugh.
He was in love with himself. He was sheened in
perspiration, because he had turned the central air off in his room.
He had the rectangular window at the foot of his bed all the way
open. He smelled the alfalfa and the onion grass and the new
mown hay though there was no new mown hay around this cow
college to smell. He pinched his little tush. He raised himself up
and felt the heat of his hips. Felt the tiny nipples on his chest.
Thought himself a lucky boy a lucky man now and shamrocks all
but gloried in his green as diamond grass eyes. He reveled in
himself. He was his own home. He felt his legs with his hands and
from inside the legs themselves. They were downy with brown
hair. He diddled his ass and smelled his finger afterwards. He
liked the smell of musk. He liked the smell of himself. He had
introduced so many boys to sex, with his shrug, his
deferentialness, his gentleness, his seeming not to care, his
willingness to okay if you want, I'll jack you off, no, sigh, I don't
mind, always saving himself for dead last because it was fun
seeing himself do this to other boys as they took all of him in their
eyes, thinking they could trap him, even more fun than their doing
it to him, from his perspective, when they took even more of him
in their eyes, like a blazing sunburst of exponential power.
He wished that fly would quit buzzing around his head.
He wished he was in love. He tried as hard as he could
sometimes. He wished he was not so beautiful. There was an epic
poem in him and that poem was to be written by him some day if
he could ever stop being such a horntoad, and he laughed at the
image that brought to mind. He wished everyone could see him
butt naked. He was just such a cool drink of water, such a tall lad
with an epicure that was in the family jewels, but right now he
was getting tired of that damned fly, buzz buzz, irritant, thought
of the Mad magazine drawing of Jack Webb as Mother Bates and
started laughing again.
He laughed so hard that it went straight into his stomach
and abdomen and his dick just bounced like a baby in a buckboard
going ninety miles an hour on a rocky country road. He loved to
laugh. He would do anything for it. He would set stink bombs in
his friends' houses and he would tip up a pail of water on top of
doors for his friends to be doused with when they came through.
They laughed with him, and if they didn't, he was not their friend
anymore. And everybody wanted to be friends with Perry.
Because he knew how to have sex. Because he knew the pleasure
portals and how to open them.
He was not clumsy like he found everyone else to be. He
was erect hard ready for action at any second of the time or day.
He loved the feel of flesh on flesh. He loved holding another boy
and caressing him and playing with him and making music with
his mouth on the boy's stomach which would tickle the organ of
said boy with feather kisses and tongue licks and gentle little
dreams come true, as Perry loved boys. He loved the sound of
them the sight of them the feel of them he loved those little pump
handles they had that reminded him of his days on the farm and he
loved to pump those wells dry. Perry remembered and he
remembered well. He was jacking off now. He felt the
counterweight in his balls. Felt the laughter leave him, stirring
away. He felt always serious during sex, even during private j/o
sessions. He was moaning now, softly. He was kissing his thin
shoulders. He was proffering his good looking talented clever
bold ingenious penis and groin into the air. He loved summer and
was glad to be young in it like a blue bottle fly in a glass jar, that
was filled with the essence of first time, for Perry always and only
went for first timers, no repeat action for him. He was not an
opportunist. He was an equal opportunity employer. And if that
meant a little work for himself and a little awkwardness for the
other person, then he would help them over it. He would prepare
them for all their tomorrows.
He was an attentive lover. He was a skilled and gifted
lover. He had a mouth like honey and he could kiss to distraction.
He was a web of sex, a box of happiness, a divining rod that
always brought out the best in others, especially when he and the
others were unclothed. And for a psych major, a real rarity, he
had an imagination. He could spin the frightened lonely dreams of
other boys out of them, he wanted them to be of success, not
frustrated sadness. He knew what the old unrepentant dreams
were, with their only giving him the slightest clues, he could
dream them happy, he could celebrate the candles in them that
needed to be anointed and needed to be snuffed out at the same
time, because he wanted their first time sex memories and dreams
to be of him alone, because he didn't want them hung on
tenterhooks about that boy back in grade school or high school
they were salivating over who would not give them the time of
day or break their clock face either, stopping them in time. For
that was the cruelest of all. Indifference.
Perry knew this, and if he looked like a young Dennis
Weaver and if he had an infectious laugh, and if he wore a leather
hide fringed jacket (kind of his trademark, like a Superman suit
would be a trademark of the Man of Steel) and if he wore jeans
tight to show his basket, and if he could make boys look into his
eyes and get lost in the summer of them, then he would do so.
Perry was a sad memory buster. Perry hated loneliness in others.
He hated when people got hurt and he hated the people who
caused hurt. So bizarre for a psych major, everything is always
the other person's own damned fault and all that bullshit that just
ain't necessarily so. Perry bucked himself up and down now. The
summer morning was dawning red as a rash in the sky, and he felt
his dick move tenderly as though it was alive and had a will of his
own, in his hand. He spat on his right fingers and rubbed them on
his shaft. He wanted to do this outside on the quad. He wanted a
love in.
He wanted to show that although he almost never made
out with boys who were not in his estimation and therefore the
estimation of everyone else in the world who had of course
sprung from his forehead (he was a psych major after all) worthy,
he was in love with all boys, even the ones he wouldn't be caught
dead with, but he was always nice to them, always talked to them
after class or on campus or something, nothing much, a nod, a
word or two, and they would smile radiantly because he had. Not
that he was a superstar singer or a TV heartthrob or anything,
though his resemblance to some of them was noted by him in his
mirror and by others telling him so. Perry was so sexual now, all
pores open and tingling, and his body felt like a molded glove was
holding the entirety of him, as he stroked his balls and rubbed his
dick, and he said the sex words, the magic words, as the back of
his head dug deeper into the thin little pillow, as he reached for a
pillow underneath it, also thin, and put it under his ass, which set
the whole package up so well, which entertained that he was
making a porno film, for some reason, it brought that image to
mind, and he gloried in the feeling, the dry warmth of it. He
jerked his head from side to side. He was a gathering all to
himself. He was his own crowd. Not that he did not need others,
for he did. Another slam at the psych creed--you need no one
other than you. Okay Ace, if that's true, send all your friends
packing, go to the highest mountain in the world away from
everything, be alone all your damned days, and just grok on
yourself forever more, as you need no one but you. More bullshit.
Perry was distributed and made with character, and his
mouth opened and he whispered the name of a boy, though he
refused to tell himself which one, and he spread his legs and
became his own hourglass spider crawling up on the belly of love
with crossed eyes and in a dress and looking like Jack Webb, and
that did it, he laughed again, he lost concentration, he stopped
bucking, and he just lay on the bed silly and foolish and happy
beyond words. His dick shrank only a little, and he was still a
sexual being, and sexual beings are in rut all the time. He could
jack off, have sex, what?, four five times a day if he could muster
the free time, if he could find the right partners dosey do. He was
a glass boy that everybody saw their own dreams in and he was
himself and he was definite, he was not solely in other people's
minds and not in his own as well. He was a person with
definitions and being and likes and dislikes he was not shy about
making known, and if the other person didn't like it, well, sport,
there's the door, see you around.
Perry never led anyone on. Never came on to anyone.
Was always polite, engaging. He was only himself. He turned
others down if they weren't right for him, as has anyone the right
to do, kindly though, and if they got all bent out of shape about it,
it was their problem. He sat on the side of the bed now, his penis
straight out. He wiggled it without touching it. He drifted his
fingers through his brown light pubic hair. He admired his bare
chest and his pink tits and the way his belly descended so swan
gracefully so eloquently into his package. He was part shadow
and part red sunlight out the window and part light from his dim
bedside table. He ached for sex. He craved it. He once had sex in
the school library in one of the glass enclosed reading rooms on
the second floor, Harry wanting to, pleading, begging, and Perry
saying okay if you want, so sweat.
And Perry really put the pedal to the metal that afternoon
and when he and Harry were finished doing the deed, they both
looked up and found five or six other students hanging onto the
outside of the glass walls of the room, like those Garfield cats in
the back of car windows, held there on their bellies by suction
cups. They applauded. Harry was distressed beyond words.
Dressed as best he could with fumbly fingers, got his jeans on,
forgot to zip up, got his shirt half on, left his shoes and socks
behind and beat a retreat out of there as the students on his way
patted him on his back and said "good show." Harry later left
school. Health problems someone said. But that day lingered in
Perry's mind like only one other annoying thing before it. There
in the reading room, next to the wooden table and chairs. There
on the blue nubby carpeting. In the over heated room of the over
heated library. And Perry and Harry growing there in that almost
breathless space of them and around them as though they were
two hot house sexual flowers, blooming, ready to bursting. It was
a lovely memory for a boy who did not need memories. It
comforted Perry when he always knew now was what counted
and nothing more.
But Perry reveled in the whole thing. He had never been
so sexual. He was sanded well. He looked like Pinocchio might
have looked had he been 20 and turned into a real boy. Perry was
so sad about boys who melted wrong. By that he meant their
faces could have been handsome had they not melted too much
on the left side, always doomed to go through life, some of them
like tragic clowns when they could have been as successful in
amore and joie de vivre as was he. When the students looked at
Perry in the reading room, after the exit stage left of Harry who
everyone laughed at and who was laughed off campus (about
which Perry felt very badly indeed; he honestly had not thought
that far in advance, he was a psych major after all, whatever
happens is everyone else's fault, not being paranoid or mixing one
sentence psych textbook canards or anything, you had to be on
the inside to understand all this stuff, like Perry was) he dressed
slowly, like a stripper in reverse. The light was blond. The back
wall of the room was wood paneled. The boys and girls were
impressed that he could still be sporting a boner. Their eyes were
riveted. Perry entered into their dreams, and in himself and later
on, once in a group of two, later in singles, he had had sex with
everyone of them.
One boy told him it was like communing, like praying.
Harry had said that before Perry had made him that fateful day in
the library. But in all fairness, Harry had said he wanted to try it
there, hoped someone saw him, thought it would a wonderful
rebellion against a screwed up life and strict Christer parents.
Perry talked with him a few days after the incident. Harry had
been in his room, trying vainly to study, when Perry knocked on
the door, Harry didn't invite him in, Perry just walked in. Harry
sat on his chair, Harry in blue overshirt and jeans and heavy socks
and work boots, as though trying to make himself more manly,
the work boots especially, Perry had not noticed him wearing the
scuffed heavy things before, at his desk, kind of hiding his face.
Perry sat on Harry's bed. Harry's roommate had moved out
because he knew now beyond all doubt that Harry was a perv. It
was lucky Harry had some health problems, in a way it was lucky,
and had to leave school shortly afterward.
Harry wouldn't talk to Perry that day in the room. Perry
was silent. He looked at the concrete, cold floor. Harry attempted
to read his text, finally gave up, slammed the book shut. Harry
after a long time, afternoon leaving, shadows getting longer, said
every word a bomb of slow seeping adoration and pain, "I loved
it Perry. I loved you. I loved people watching. I just freaked out
at the end. I think I saw them watching before you did. I loved
sucking you off. I loved the way your dick and my mouth made
these little wet soaking sounds. I remember thinking I wish they
could have heard that. It was the greatest time in my life. I was in
a glass cage of the reading room and I was scared to death, but it
was the greatest sweetest time of my life."
Perry remembered all this now, this early summer
morning, that cold winter day last year. The damned fly had
started it somehow. He tried to get back his laughter and humor
but found it now strangely lacking. He hated it when he was
serious, hated it when he had to think, for he never knew where
that might take him. His dick was still hard and he stroked it, felt
the strong warm hardness of it. He thought of Harry, nice Harry,
with his small dick and his high schoolish choirboy face, the
shyness of him, the way he cried into Perry's shoulder when they
were lying still, after grappling on the floor of the reading room,
the way Harry clung to Perry for dear life, and Perry knew it was
no show, no act for Harry of the red hair and the freckle dusted
face, and the body that smelled of summer farm hay.
The way Harry had kissed Perry's creamy though
somewhat gaunt and high cheekboned face, the way Harry
allowed Perry to remove both their clothes, and for another boy,
another anybody, to finally finally see Harry's dick, and all dreams
commingled in one as Perry leaned over and supped on Harry's
hard on, and held its accordion tense giving body lengthening and
shortening in Perry's mouth, bending and moving, as Perry
pushed it into itself just a bit and then pulled it longer just a tiny
bit, and full of love and desire and sex, and the inner purity that
was Harry, but that final meeting of the boys in Harry's room a
few days later, that final day of them, there was never another day
of them, would not have been except Perry felt a bit sorry that
Harry had brought this on himself, though certainly not guilty
about anything he had done. When Perry was through, he moved
on. But gave Harry this added break. Would have broken the
cardinal rule and would have let Harry have sex with him that
afternoon again if the boy had wanted.
"I knew there might be a crowd," Harry said. "Sex
chemistry draws people like ozone in the air. I know you knew
there would be too. I freaked after it was over, but I drank all
your cum, and I loved it and I love you Perry. I'm sorry I hurt
you, Perry. I'm sorry I humiliated you. If I did. I just love you."
This last a husky whisper, an unmeant whisper, Perry
knew, because he knew that Harry did not love him. Harry might
think he did, but Perry knew better. Everyone always falls in love
with the first time. Perry had when he was 10 and the high school
boy had come under his seductive powers. And afterwards had
left Perry alone, saddening Perry immensely, making him feel
lonely and powerless and like he had fallen into an abyss, but
Perry at that age was as springy as his cock after he had been
swimming, when in the summer hot bathroom, he would peel his
trunks off, find his little water logged peter mashed and seemingly
bloodless, white as a ghost a sheet white, his little balls smaller
and wrinkled, and pulling off the trunks was like peeling skin off
himself, his abdomen whiter than Casper the Friendly Ghost, but
as soon as he was starkers in the bathroom, he sometimes
fondling and sometimes not, saw his penis take on life again. IT'S
ALIVE! IT'S ALIVE! He watched it magically resurrect itself
from a little crooked splint of cartilage, as it grew itself back into
shape, presto changeo, as it got its regular brown coloring back in
it from the wet and damp of chlorinated water and the swim
trunks that clung like sex after its all over and you can't get rid of
it no matter how hard you try. Like Harry. That would be Harry's
problem all his life. Not Perry's.
He realized now that the boy's name he had whispered,
moaned, groaned a few moments ago as he had been pulling his
dick had been Harry's. Being seen by the crowd. Giving the
campus something to buzz over and they buzzed over it a long
time, making Harry stay in his room and leave in the middle of
one stormy rainy windblown dark midnight, never to be heard
from again. It only made Perry more popular than ever. That's
how his life had always been, would always be. Him taking pity
and all. And Perry unaware that he had been thinking about him
off and on since then and now. It was like they had been through
a war together, though that was a stupid analogy, for both (key
word, both) had loved being observed, Perry getting his dick
creamed by this lovely boy with the big startled little boy eyes,
who thought he, himself, was so unlovely, and that final afternoon
Harry had been excited, flushed, though his words were hard to
come by, somewhat drab, confused, stumbling, because Harry had
said or Perry had discerned, that that sex time of theirs was
forever the bench mark for Harry and he would never equal it,
forget totally about his surpassing it. Perry had made a memory
for Harry, that with the distance of time, would be a very
beautiful one, and Perry had given Harry in effect away to all the
other six or so students who had watched, mouths agape, silent,
motionless, and it had not been awful or embarrassing for anyone.
What Harry had thought was embarrassment was actually
liberation, and Harry seemed to think it so, that final time, that
final talk with Perry. Perry, being Perry, helped him see it. He
had made Harry publicly sexual and with the best looking kindest
most gentle boy on campus. The arrow had gone just where
Harry had wanted it.
Before other's eyes, Perry, in their safe little glass cage,
had caressed Harry's legs, held each one at a time, observed each
leg intently, held Harry's precious little cock, and kissed it like
God blessing his prime saint, had made love to Harry for
everyone to see, and though Perry had indeed not noticed the
crowd, (or had he?) had not felt the inordinate intake of the
breath of them and the breath of the reading room sucked out and
on hold, he had known someone might be watching, why else had
Harry chosen such a public place and a place walled on three
sides by windows? What else could the idea have been? Perry just
wished Harry had been brave enough to try it with them, or
someone, and perhaps he had tried it with someone now. Maybe
he had saved Harry's life. Made him realize his own self esteem.
That was what psychologists were meant to do, wasn't it?
Perry was perfect. It was not his fault others were not and
had such trouble with life. He said often that he had not made a
mistake since fifth grade, and everyone believed him, and that he
was bi and made it with both sexes, because he was himself and
knitted into knowing exactly the right thing to say, exactly the
right thing to do at exactly the right moment, he was given
dispensation for the gay part by pretty much everyone. It was
after all Perry and that made it okay.
Perry walked to the open window of red purple sky and
green green summer and he was a part of it, felt a slight hot
breeze on him, and for a moment, he thought that perhaps Harry
had sat him up, not to be laughed at, but to use Perry as a status
symbol--though Perry disallowed that, he had been used once and
only once in his life. He would not be laughed at, because no one
laughed at him after that high school kid he had seduced, who
Perry had phoned a few nights later, logy with infatuation and
lust, and the high school kid had said with a smirky voice "give
me a break, you twerp, get lost" and had hung up the phone, not
slammed the receiver, not disconnected abruptly, but just the
phone placed on the receiver almost gently, as though Perry was
the receiver.
The fly was buzzing around him now. Frantically buzzing.
A big fly. Seemed to have green wings. Watch it, don't hit the fly,
it might be Al Hedison, Perry thought, getting the joke accurate
when everyone else had gotten it wrong. He put his hand on the
window ledge and stuck his head out into the hot humid air.
There was a grass lawn of deep redolent green in front of him,
one story below, still dewy from the departing night, that went to
the street across from which was the field house and the gym. He
rubbed himself. He wished he could have group sex again. He
considered the reading room thing group sex.
He wished he had known what it was like for each person
then to see him, and to see Harry, and though Perry later went
down the list of the observers and had each of them, breaking his
tradition of only going for the most beautiful boys and girls, cause
if truth were told, two of the six were real dogs, but it had been
erotic with each of them, even the most unlovely, it had all
counted for him in a different way than before, because Perry was
remembering how it was with him and Harry in front of their
eyes. He imagined that each person carried the two boys'
reflections in their eyes, at least in their memories, and each one
saw them differently there in the glass cubicle, and they saw, not
Perry alone, or Perry and themselves, not even Perry when he was
making it with two boys at once, no, they saw Perry and Harry,
lost in their own land. Perry had not been grandstanding. Harry
had. Perry had let him. Because Perry knew. Harry had slipped
past the barriers somehow. This troubled Perry now and he
wished he had not thought of it this way. He had to discipline his
mind more.
Perry was not in the glass cubicle anymore by himself. He
had shared himself. Like he had shared himself with that high
schooler he seduced, or had it been the other way round? The
bulky football player boy who had sucked Perry's little weenie
and made it pop, and Perry had slung his little boy arms around
the kid who had a name though Perry couldn't remember it right
now, but he had cried out the bigger boy's first name, and was so
inordinately happy as he tried to hold onto him, tried to get the
boy to go to sleep with him there on the park grass that summer
night, when they risked being found out, but the older boy had
squirted on Perry's face, the cum on Perry's right eyebrow, a line
of it on Perry's right cheek, and the older boy had licked it off as
Perry had closed his green shamrock eyes so tightly, and felt that
heavy thick hot lascivious tongue on his face, as the boy's heavier
longer penis had rubbed against Perry's thin ribbed chest and he
wanted the boy to eat him, to devour him, to take him in from the
summer heat and the itchy grass, and make him safe and secure
and loved, and he said I love you and then he phoned him a few
nights later, after waiting for the boy to call him (from that point
on, Perry made sure it was the reverse) but the boy wouldn't have
anything to do with him, and that was the last mistake Perry had
made.
He stroked himself now to completion. He pushed his
abdomen out and he rubbed his butt with one hand, he rubbed one
hand on his penis and let it when it came do it by itself, the penis
shooting around crazily, dizzily, the cum thick and juicy going all
over the place, on Perry's well developed legs, on the glass, on
the floor, on the wall, like a Gatling gun fired without anyone
afterward holding it as it shot off round after round, like in "The
Wild Bunch" whose tag line was "When the west was drenched in
blood." When Perry was drenched in cum. His balls clenched. His
legs. His butt. He came so powerfully. He remembered the high
schooler. He remembered how good he felt for a time. Then the
void. To be filled over and over again, he knew, successfully. He
was a psych major after all.
He remembered Harry and the glass walls. He had broken
his cardinal psychology major rule--don't think about it, if it
hurts, don't think about it, and Perry had held to that rule hard
and fast. He leaned his tired body against the window frame. He
was out of breath. His balls hurt. He spread his legs and let the
cum run down his thighs. He breathed hard, like summer coming
for a fast run then off into the distance, in the season's final game
and it was over for good for another year. His lungs breathed in
hard and fast and deep. He gasped for breath. It was like he was
old and bent and worn out inside. First time that had happened.
He got a charley horse in his left leg. He grasped it and hobbled
to the bed fell on it and massaged his leg. It happened sometimes
when he masturbated extremely hard. But never when he was
with partners. It would have been embarrassing. Perry when
around anyone else was always in charge, in control.
Perry had a great imagination, though he was not one for
thinking. After the pain went away, didn't last too long anyway,
he lay covered with sweat, on his back, on his narrow bed. The
fly had followed him. Buzzed Perry's face, like a low flying plane.
Perry felt the tracks of sperm on the bed covering, sperm that was
still dripping out of his cock and from the line of it on his thighs.
He hated that high schooler. He hated that somehow or other
Harry had invaded his inviolate world. Perry had always been a
loner who had given out treats, because he was kind, because he
was generous, and he truly was. But now as he closed his eyes,
and listened to his dick deflate, he thought he had made some
mistakes, though he wasn't sure exactly what, and he should be
sure, with Harry, and with that damned high schooler who must
have had a name but Perry couldn't remember it still. It bothered
him. The fly flew around him. Like it was bottled up in a little
glass cubicle with Perry. Hey, don't kill that fly, it might be
Harry.....something, some name, can't remember, Perry thought
drowsily, the heat getting to him, gently soothing him to sleep.
When he woke, he knew, he would forget about Harry
and the high schooler and he would swat the fly whoever it was,
and if that didn't work, Perry thought, shrugging himself into
oblivion, he would check his abnormal psych text book. Maybe it
would have a one liner to fit whatever vague problems all this was
suddenly causing him. Cover the problems, whatever they were,
with a clever four or five words, easy to tag and forget, wrap the
forgotten memories in clothes of invisibility, and toss the thing
overboard in the deepest recesses of time and memory gone,
never to be thought of again. Perry slept. His dick though small
again wiggled. It had a dream in mind for him. The dick got
bigger. If a dick could smile, this one did. It got to work. For it
loved him so and would always do right by him. It was Perry's
after all.
There was only the lazy buzz of the fly that Perry heard
now only in his dreams. The droning sleepy sound of it. As it
landed on the pillow beside Perry's face, and appeared to drowse
as well. The room felt close, stifling, hot. The glass walls, Perry's
dream said, bringing the whole thing up again, can be broken, just
double your fist and hit them, hit them hard, now and now!
Smash it through so you can breathe! Breathe! Expand your lungs
and shout for someone to HELP YOU ESCAPE!!!
And an hour or so later, the sun shining in hard yellow hot
through his window, Perry, true to his word, forgot the whole
thing.
the end
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