I, Thiccarus

It's hard, though. Each thought is like a "true" New Yorker -- insistent, demanding, and somehow oblivious to the silliness of thinking themself the only original person in the room. A billboard jostles a case idea out of the way, one which had just tread on Chaucer's procession past the droughte of Marche into Aprill with his shoures soote. Where was I, again?

Every second: Sensation; reflection; evaluation; observation -- pick it apart, analyze it, twist it, bop it, and put it together again. Is it true? Is it original? How does this relate? What can I do with it? Each a tireless tinker banging away at an invention that no one will use. My mind palace is too cluttered, and I'm too busy to do anything about it, save for chipping away at it once a week in therapy.

So, where better to not be overstimulated than a sweltering, flashing, oppressive monument to vice and unjust desert? But I came here, willingly, for you. And I am so happy I did.

When you first described yourself as a cozy forest witch, I felt my thoughts breathe. Here, out of the heat, you invited me to your Oasis. Cool air, quiet folk rock, a familiar familiar, and a bookcase full of shared values. I got nosy, so I looked even closer: Arendt sat patiently between the Wasteland and the Overstory, and raised her hand with nonchalant poise for my consideration. When did I last think about Eliot? How on earth could I be a hollow man here, with all of this--and you--to fill me?

Which, of course, you did. Patiently and inevitably, like time fills an hourglass. And kindly, too; you cared for me. Cooked for me! You stepped through my tempest wall, looked me in the eye, and shared peace.

You welcomed me into the calm with eager, curious hands. How elegant your fingers, skating over my width and softness. Sotto voce, you breathed a reverential "fuck."

"You've gotten so heavy," your words are incense in a ritual. Your alabaster hands grip my depth, curious to squeeze, assessing my new growth.

"What are we going to do with you," you tease, "you've grown so wide; you know this, yeah?" And I know, though some part of me has yet to acknowledge it. I nod, spellbound, feeling new flesh under my chin move as I wordlessly agree. My entire mind is still, watching the ceremony of you squeezing my softened sides.

We both know rhetorical questions presuppose an answer. I found out yours as you straddled me. My belly, lovehandles, and hips (which are used to fighting each other for space) obey you.

"We fit together," you observe. My belly fills up the space between your thighs. My softness grazes you. Your thrust sends ripples through my body, up to my chest. I barely notice another pint of ice cream at my lips.

You rode me and fed me until I was quiet inside. Who could call this a Wasteland? This focus is Oasis.

At peace, you fall asleep on what used to be my pecs, rubbing slow circles into my softness.

"You feel solid. Secure. Safe." Sweet sibilance sussurating upwards from the crook of my arm.

Waking up next to you here, in your Oasis, will stay with me. And so, I write.

May this be a thank you. May it be a prized souvenir that takes up no space; only time. And may it bring you the same comfort and satiety that you brought me.

I carry it well, too. The memory, like the weight you've put on me, will last. Safe from worry and thought. All I have to do is feel my softened waistline, and remember you.

- THX ✨🪽