Hammerport

His arm thrust out through Bliss into the dark, casting a gnarled hand into the void. The student wanted to touch Bliss, penetrate, scratch. But Bliss was his ruler, never providing surface for him to taste or caress, tantalising him with ghosts of sensation that played across his body, luring him towards climax.

Erotic waves cascaded through his flesh and his muscles danced with their sexual resonance. His rational mind disengaged and he was left with primal impulses, an animal in the wild. He cried out, desperate to touch something and his outstretched arm brushed the wall beside the bed. Ingrain wallpaper, cold, bumpy and lifeless. It wasn’t what his skin had sought, but it was sufficient.

His shriek reached fever pitch and his voice gave out, a supernova collapsing in on itself. A soundless, raw orgasm blasted through his groin.

White ejaculate hung in mid-air, its jet suspended within the blue smoke of Bliss. It bubbled and boiled, hissing as it vaporised.

The smoke retreated from his body, dressing itself in the white strip Bliss had discarded to the floor during the student’s sleep. The strip coiled around the whirling cobalt blueness loosely, hanging like a short, slinky spring. The strip resumed its gentle, orbital motion and Bliss retreated into the far corner of the dorm.

‘I want to touch…’ the student whispered, voice cracking as he turned onto his side through pain. Every muscle throbbed with agony, like his body had been ripped apart then slammed back together. ‘Let me… touch…’

He extended a hand towards Bliss, but Bliss seemed to shrink away in response.

‘What do you… want…’ he croaked. ‘What is it… I have to do…?’

Bliss’ body pulsated and quivered, straining gently against the white coil.

The student sat up, groaning with each movement. He was still dressed, save for his zipper that Bliss had prised open. He tucked himself back in and zipped up, then leaned forwards into his hands. Sweat blossomed and joined into rivulets beneath his clothes, drawing cold lines across his skin.

He stared at the carpet and evoked shapes out of its indistinct form. This darkness, with just Bliss and he together, was more real than the richest colours in the world. But the light washed these moments away, leaving him with nothing but the desolate loneliness, abandoned in the void that was other people. Sartre was right.

‘I love you, you know that… you know?’ he said, the carpet still ensnaring his gaze.

He sensed Bliss move and looked up; Bliss was gone.

‘You always leave,’ he said, shuddering at the thought of normality returning to haunt him. He could see the corridor light spilling beneath the door, staining his private darkness.

He lay down again, the evening’s alcohol still travelling his veins. He let it rock him back to sleep, back to the empty, dreamless slumber that Bliss had rescued him from.