Psychedelic Breakfast – Cherry Earnshaw

October 14, 2022

He’s sitting in front of me, pushing the beans around his plate like they are harvested organs. Maybe that’s precisely what they are. The coffee creamer looks a lot like cum, and the coffee granules look like powdered shit. I drag my nails up and down his naked, mottled thigh, sending flakes of eczema onto the floor. The sound of bacon frying sounds like a body melting. Mistaking my hair for leftover pasta, he sticks his fork in there and starts twirling. I sit on the washing machine, feeling its vibration inside my good parts. He comes to join me, hiding his cock behind a copy of Playboy. Laundry detergent falls from the side—a viscous liquid that makes the floor look like melted candle wax. He asks me if his face looks red, but all I see is a tomato with eyes. I grab his dick and begin to stroke. My fast stroking and the intensity of the washing machine are becoming symbiotic. Climaxing, his pulsating penis suddenly resembles a human breast expressing strings of pearly milk. We return to the table. I arrange the miniature sausages to form a bridge. He places the egg at the front and slams his hand down on the yolk, making eggy rain. He flips open the cigarette packet and takes out one. When I hand him the lighter, I see the severed finger hanging from his cracked lips, painting my feet.