Part II of “Oedipus Complex,” by Fiore Amore
As I left the studio apartment at 161 Rose Lane, my place of residence, I let out a begrudging sigh. So began another day.
It was February, with chills abound on the two-mile stroll to his house. I couldn’t drive, I’m not one for machines, and he wasn’t able to pick me up. The buses don’t run on Sundays, either. So up and down the hills I went, around corners and cul-de-sacs, forward through the maze.
To the ramshackle two-story dwelling I arrived. Knock-knock.
“The door is unlocked. Proceed up the stairs and down the hallway.”
I did as instructed. When I opened the door I came upon an epitomic male living space, a small attic-esque bedroom with a mattress on the floor. Clutter was abound, and a tattered armchair sat in the corner across from a flat-screen television of modest size serving as a computer monitor. I saw my companion for the night, Michael, resting on the mattress.
His mandibles twitched modestly as he rubbed his forelegs together. I suppose he was happy to see me. “W-welcome! Sorry I couldn’t answer the door, I well, y’know…” said Michael, gesturing with his head to his lack of individual digits.
“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” I replied shortly.
He then crawled over to the armchair and nestled himself to a comfortable position, gesturing for me to sit on the floor below him. I complied.
“Have you ever listened to Chapo Trap House?” Michael asked, gently running his foreleg along the top of my head.
Oh lord. One of those guys, huh? “No, I haven’t. Heard of them though!” I forced a half-smile.
He cocked his head sideways for a moment. “Well here, I’ll pull up my favorite episode really quick. You’ll love it, I promise.”
We sat there. For an hour. The show had its moments. I’m not one for podcasts.
Upon its conclusion, Michael used the side of his foreleg to turn my head to face him. I wasn’t sure what he meant by this. Maybe he was trying to kiss me. That wouldn’t work. After all, we had very different jaw structures. We paused for a moment. I think he was unsure what to do. Perhaps he was contemplating the same contradiction I was.
“Get on the bed,” Michael asked. Was he trying to be commanding? It didn’t work. I complied anyway, sitting myself down criss-cross-applesauce. “Oh… on your hands and knees, I meant.” Once again I rearranged.
“Is this okay?” I asked with a sigh.
“Yes, thank you,” he said, crawling above me. “Pants off?”
Off they went. How intimate.
Michael lowered himself down to me, his cold exoskeleton pressing against my back as he set his forelegs on my shoulders. Eventually I felt a spheroid object exit Michael and enter me as he let out something akin to a squeal. This was followed by another, and another, and another, and then one more — five in total. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
We sat there for a while, I’m not sure how long, until Michael slowly extracted himself from me before skittering back to his chair.
“Let me call you a ride home,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Never before have I been so full and so empty at the same time.
