Yoshitaka by Samuel White

Four minutes walk from Baraki Nakayama station is my front door, one of twenty identical front doors in a four storey cube. Upon entering, we pass a kitchen installment on the right- a fish grill, double hob, sink unit, cabinet; and the bathroom on the left- toilet, shower unit, small bath, sink; before emerging some one step later into my room. Blue carpeted square. Space for a futon, table, two chairs, cabinet on top of which is a TV and video.
    Sliding glass doors, concrete rectangle outside because I'm on the ground floor, so if I outstretch my arm my hand is blocking the sidewalk. I could touch people.
    My room receives no visitors, aside from the mosquitoes who spike my epidermis and steal my thinly vitamin deficient body sauce as I sleep, resulting in itchy pink swellings on my neck. I'm surprised they find sustenance in the juice they can tap from my anaemic pipes.
    My life processes are sustained by 7-11. Cells replace themselves. Muscle, bone, brain, testicles, constantly rebuilding to remain the same. I am made of burritos. My eyes are pickled eggs.
    Four years, three months, and sixteen days ago I went on a date with Fumiko, the woman who works on the reception at Tsurimoto Electrics- the same company that I work at, in the administrative division.
    Fumiko is a fascinatingly boring person, she is truly insignificant. Her dull, opaque see-balls squint out from behind thick spectacles. Somewhere is a layer of dust but I can't make out if its built up on the lenses of her glasses or on the outer membrane of her eyes.
    The view through these windows is putting me to sleep, when my attention is diverted by her teeth- like crooked tombstones cracked and eroded by tectonic grind and pounding storms they jut out of oversized gums at peculiar angles, pushing her whole mouth out into a gaumless convex.
    She defies the laws of nature by having hair which is at once greasy, dry, lank and flyaway, with split ends and dandruff to boot.
    Her clothes are shit, she may as well have painted herself in vomit and come to work for all the appeal they add to her misproportioned frame.
    She accepts my mumbled, dyslexic invitation to dinner.
    Our cheap seafood is washed down with beer. I don't often drink and she is inebriated after two glasses.
    I get her on to the train to our respective stations and she passes out, her head on my lap. There aren't many people in the carriage so I bundle my penis into her fearsome mouth and start frantically masturbating until my semen is frothing over those jagged fangs. Some of it spurts down her airway and she coughs and splutters into consciousness. I pretend to be asleep, hearing her burp and gag, stagger to the carriage door. Through the slits of my eyes I see her alight, bewildered, at the next station. A crowd of people get on the train but none sit next to me. I put away my cum dripping cock, although a large stain remains visible on my crotch. A woman gasps in disdain and a businessman mutters. I pretend to be asleep.

About the author:
Samuel White lives most of the time in Manchester, England. He made his first million speculating on clam shells but lost it all three days later at the Grand National. He recently returned from a two week holiday in Uzbekistan with his spirit guide, Vladimir, and described the country as “quite big, really”. His favourite cake comes with walnuts on.