This Doesn't End in Suicide

McKyle didn’t know his name. It could have been something ghetto like Quintavious or simple like John. McKyle didn’t need to know him, he just needed to feel him and since this would be his very last time ever, it mattered not the name.

In a room full of pretty, drunk, weed smoking ponies of various shades of brown stomping and swaying to hip hop music his chosen horse stood still. Was he bored or was he aware that such a stunning work of art did not require movement to be coveted and admired?

McKyle made his way over to him. He didn’t ask his name; instead, he leaned in close and whispered to the beautiful stranger “I want you to be my last.” 

Drunk off Hennessey, stoned off weed, and thoroughly horny, the stranger accepted McKyle’s hand without pondering his statement.

McKyle dropped twenty dollars onto the table by the door and took a couple of condoms from the fishbowl. 

They were instantly flooded with strobe lights when they entered the otherwise dark room. Strobe lights flashed red, purple, blue, and green over their bodies, against the walls and onto the dried cum stained sheets on the full-sized bed in the middle of the room. Did it matter that the sheets weren’t fresh? This was after all his last time. In the process of removing his clothes

McKyle heard his pocket rattle and contemplated how many pills it would take. As long as they did the job; did it really matter? The exact amount was as irrelevant as the pretty man’s name. He needed the man to fuck him, he needed the pills to kill him; the specifics weren’t of necessity.

Oh! The sight of him naked was breath taking. Oh! There was no kissing, no caressing no forelay just, Oh!

The circular motion of the stranger’s hips under the strobe light was as mentally stimulating to McKyle as the deep probing of the stranger’s cock into the walls of his stomach was physically appeasing. Had he put the condom on? Did it even matter? This was; after all, the last time.

Scared to do so, but too enraptured not to, McKyle, wrapped his arms around the stranger, then his legs.

From the deep within the stranger’s soul escaped a moan. A moan that McKyle recognized oh to well. The moan of a black man in need of intimacy from another. A moan derived from after hearing you’re too black/ not black enough/ broke/not attractive/not masculine enough/ some black man, some benevolent brother, cleaves unto you and for a while you are under the illusion that you are good enough; that you are enough.

But the illusion always dissolves once the nuts are busted, showers taken, clothes put back on and promises made to stay in touch or possibly become more serious are broken. McKyle had experienced it all so many times, so this was the last time.

Unexpected, but grateful none the less, McKyle, welcomed the stranger’s kiss. He yielded to being positioned onto his stomach and spread his legs wide for the stranger.

Maybe he imagined it, but McKyle could’ve sworn the stranger whispered in his ear, “This doesn’t end in suicide.”

He felt the stranger’s arm tighten around his neck. His head was yanked back as the crook of the stranger’s arm crushed his Adam’s apple and stifled his air supply.

McKyle fought to free himself but the stranger’s weight was too much upon him, his cock was too deep inside him and the grip around his throat was much, much too tight.

He yielded to his fate. The illusion was already gone as the stranger emptied himself inside McKyle. Had the stranger known all along the McKyle wanted to die? Did it even matter. This was, after all, his last time.

With one swift motion Mckyle’s neck was snapped causing him to spew blood across the headboard before him. The quick flash of blue from the strobe light made it appear purple for a second. Everything for McKyle went black forever

. The stranger redressed, returned to the room where the ponies drunk off spirits, high off weed and other substances stumbled about with less grace. The stranger maneuvered his way through them, found the door and exited into the night.

The End

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