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I'd Rather Be the Mayfly

I feel your cool skin against me before the friction of our bodies have covered us in a thin layer of sweat.  Your breasts press into my chest as our lips meet. Our tongues greet one another in the space between. This must be what it’s like to be a mayfly, whose life lasts less than twenty-four hours.

With so little time, surely, we’d try to fit everything into one moment. But what is everything? At least once I’d want to see you laugh. At least once I’d want to see you cry. We wouldn’t have enough time to travel the world, so maybe we could go for a walk, hold hands, and talk about the different things we see. I’d want to make you breakfast in bed. I’d want to sit with you and watch the rain. I’d want us to drink wine, get drunk and tell each other all our secrets, all of them except for one. What ever the secret is doesn’t matter. Keep it hidden from me so every time I look at you I can still wonder what you’re thinking.  I don’t know if that’s everything. It’s a start. We could listen to music. I could try to sing and you could laugh at my voice. Maybe I need to see you laugh more than once. After twenty hours, no matter how much we’ve done, could we lay together until the end?

And to the planets and stars, maybe we look like the mayfly. Eighty years on a timeline that spans eons, and all that matters, all that will ever matter, is how your smell and taste will still be implanted on me in the moments before my death. You reach between us and grip my cock with both hands, slowly stroking up and down. I feel it growing as your grip tightens. You guide me to your warm wet slit. Already, I feel your body shaking. I enter you, my long smooth shaft spreading you open. There are only two things I know for sure. Somewhere in the universe a star has gone supernova. And somewhere on earth a mayfly has died. And perhaps we don’t realize it yet, but there is one truth that can be learned from both. There is no difference between the star and the mayfly. Twenty-four billion years, or twenty-four hours, they are both the same in the end.

Soon our bodies are pressed together and our limbs tangled. When we cum, neither of us can be sure if we are dying or living. I know your nails are digging into my back, and my hand is wrapped around your throat. My cock throbs with cum surging up through my shaft, and your body squirms and jolts with each thrust. I guess the question is, does anything live forever? Lobsters seem to be immortal until they end up on someone’s plate. Tape worms and some kinds of jellyfish can regrow and regenerate indefinitely. I’d rather be the mayfly who is born, eats, spends half his life in search of you; makes love and dies as he watches you give birth to his offspring. In that fragile existence, against all odds, I will find you. I trust that you will find me, too.

 

 

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