Primordial Suture

CW: sexual content

Primordial Suture

It was late fall, the time of day when the sun considers setting for the day. The lovely golden light glistened across the red hairs on your shoulder and sheened across your left hip. I reached out to caress that velvet skin, smooth, soft, all with a slight touch of fur.

We kissed, one of those long roaming kisses where each mouth devours the other for minutes or hours. Your hands were pinned between us and I kept them there, despite your small, ineffectual struggles. I wanted to drive this afternoon. Starting at your shoulder, I let my fingers slide across and down your back, feeling your skin twitch like a cat’s fur as I traversed your ribs. So warm and smooth - exquisite to my finger tips.

I retreated to your moan of regret and rolled you onto your belly. Climbing atop your thighs, I stroked the soft fur down your back and across your buttocks with my fingertips over and over. It was a replay of a thousand times – my fingertips, your warm skin, and that glorious fur.

I worked my way to the center of your back and using two fingers, one from each hand, I traced the edges of your spine down from your hairline in small circular caresses. Somewhere toward the middle, maybe around your waist, I felt them - two tiny rough spots, little catches on the smooth, places to pause, feel with other fingers, investigate with fingernails and try to dislodge.

They were so tiny, maybe a sticker or a cactus spine, just there in the middle of perfection.

I forced my hands away. This was not the time or the situation for this investigation and I covered your back with my body, nibbled your neck, and rolled off. We resumed our afternoon explorations and I forgot about those little nubs. But later, as I wrapped my hands around you to pull you nearer, there they were, tiny pokes under my fingers whorls. This time I snagged them with my nails.

“Stop!” you said, with a mischievous grin. “They’re primordial sutures!”

“Don’t be silly! You haven’t had any stitches in years and there’s no such thing as a primordial suture” I scolded. I pried at those minuscule tags, the misplaced facial whiskers, the almost microscopic splinters of pine from your back with my fingernails. I felt them snick loose, heard you gasp, and felt a cool breeze blow through the closed window.

The cats hissed and hit the floor a run, the dog backed away and whined in terror, and I sat and watched wide-eyed as you fell to pieces in my arms! Your head split into sixteen, your eyes bounced, then rolled off the foot of the bed and out the door. Your ears sprang into the air, straightened out and sailed into the bathroom. Teeth rattled as they chattered into one another and your nostrils sniffed a big sniff, turned and landed on either side of multifaceted, soft-grey cubes of crystallized brain.

Your disassociation spread as your clavicles cartwheeled across the room. Bits of arm and chest carpeted me. Tufts of fur tangled in my hair, and skin sheets closed my eyes, blanketing my face with freckles.

I cleared my sight to see the lungs, liver, spleen and heart escape from their ribbed cage, landing in vividly colored chunks ranging from pink to cabernet on the plush grey carpet. Stomach, colon, and the rest slithered onto the velvet quilt.

But it didn’t stop! Slices of thigh and calf, complete with femur, patella, tibia and fibula, burst apart like popped rolls of Neccos wafers. The travel of your ankles and feet ended at the apartment door, pinkie toes knocking to get out.

I heard someone screaming, realized it was me, and suddenly all was quiet. Everything was still but the blinking of the dog’s eyes in the corner of the room. I loosed myself from the disarray and surveyed.

All I can say was, it was odd. It was as if you had no blood, no lymph – no fluids at all. Everything was in cubes, or slices, or pieces, or bones. I knew I should vomit, but it was much too clean for that. Instead, I stared and plotted… how to put the puzzle of you back together again.

I stepped over the pieces until I got to the tops of your thighs. They seemed substantial. Taking a deep breath, I lifted them up just off the floor. The rest of the slices shifted, rolled and reoriented themselves to each other, small moist slapping sounds as they came together. First, the left, then the right.

Your shoulders were easy – the clavicles were the keys. Just like a puppet’s, as I pulled your arms moved and jerked into realignment. Your fingers hopped up in line, nodding to each other as they seemed to leap into place, as though to check positions.

The chest was harder, the stitches hid – one below each nipple. But with a bit of a yank, ribs clinked and the lungs sighed in reassembly.

The head was a knot behind each ear – both had to be pulled in synchrony and as I drew. them taught, their winding springs squealed. I had to retrieve your eyes from under the sewing machine. Lidless, they stared at me blankly, as though they didn’t know me, not that I blame them.

Soon, I had assemblages, seven in all – your head, your torso in hemispheres, two arms and two legs. But I knew I was missing something. The parts wouldn’t join and I was afraid I was taking too long. I searched out in the living room, nothing. The bathroom, again, nothing. Then I heard the dog whining and looked to see her staring under the edge of the bed. There, by the leg, on the fallen edge of the quilt, was your cock.

It moved when I gasped, and it seemed to reach for my hand. I picked it up, caressed it and started to cry. Again, it moved like cocks do and suddenly, I remembered – the cock is the key to a man. It always has been and always will be. Quickly, I gathered all the invisible threads that joined your thousands of pieces. I put them all together at the base of your cock.

I backed up and watched. The silken threads began to glow in rainbows. They lifted up off the bed and danced, winding around each other, braiding and knotting – the dance of you. Finally the last thread, the heart of you thread, lifted to join and with a small drum roll from the bones and a puff of clear smoke from your lungs, there you were – all your pieces in one.

You turned, looked at me, rolled your lovely hazel eyes, smacked my bare behind and said, “I told you. Never touch a primordial suture!” Then you kissed me.

“Don’t you remember?”