Wednesday, April 25, 2018


Nadal and Federer are preparing for their moment. in many ways this is the culmination of all of their trainings since childhoods. and for Chrissie, life will never be the same. she will become a new woman.

Li Na has what looks like a stick of wood in her mouth.

Chrissie: what's that rod in your mouth?

Li: how dare you. Kei isn't like that! i'm just playin. he is. want your key?

Nadal: Nishikori? i forgot what the guy looked like.

Chrissie: got it in my pocket. though i am currently naked. *bows*

Bump: got my goggles on.

Li: no, to everything.

Roger: 42. i'm back down to 4. Rafa is stuck at 2. that Australian with the tan is number one.

Nadal: is that a pretzel? we don't have pretzels in my country. they're always covered in hot chocolate. hot dripping chocolate.

Chrissie: fellas, this is gonna be a smooth glide. i only ate one Annie's pretzel at the airport before i raced over here.

Nadal: with dipping sauce?

Roger: your rod smells funny.

Li: it's because i smash its seeds between my straight teeth. this isn't about simple salt. this is a sesame stick. known to you Westerners as the Sword of Saad. its magic is too Eastern for your understanding. better to leave it to the pros.

Chrissie: i used to be a pro.

Li: before the night is up you all will stay up. you will be done when you finish. and all the sesame will be sucked dry. be sure to leave the smokey glass of the door to your rainfall shower closed. we don't want our non-paying customers to cheat a look at the magic inside.

Li smiles form both sides of her mouth.

Roger: but you're just playing, right?

Li: all of us play, but not all of us live. truly live.

there are rumbles coming from both ends of the Yoshita, the ceiling and the roof, but the floor of action remains at a standstill. Chrissie notices the eerie green lights signaling her to arrow to the two steps to the rainfall shower.

Chrissie: oooooooooooooooooooooooou these rainfall showers are special. i forgot, that's what really drew me here. sorry, guys. they aren't on any map or travelocity review. and those aren't green lights. they are the rainforest, the canopy of rough brush covering the sun and allowing a woman to truly be naked in body and spirit, to ascend each rope of power water from the rainfall showerhead into her own bottom head. to feel nature course through her coarseness, soften her demeanor back to factory levels, and approach the world anew. safe locked trapped inside this space in the Amazon where there is no light, only the sensation of drops like hard beads from a magic necklace hitting her shoulderblades like acupuncture darts blown from a hollowed-out sesame stick, a shot of medicine across the bough, and she crumples up like a petalless flower without a bud, allowing the forest of life to woods her into submission, into a ball, to eat her, consume her, with only the faint red lights from the neon signs of the midnight donuts shop on the bluesilver Tokyo sidestreets filtering through the palms as big as people protecting her like a can-can dancer's pink feather whose stem is as long as her leg.

she takes her gentlemen each by their shoulderblade, pinching their nerve.

Chrissie: look out to the future, gentlemen. what do you see? at there? the yellow and purple streaks of the hot city. 24 hours busy. never enough time to think but to build computers to think for us. never enough time to take a long slow sip of hard coffee, long enough to taste the bitter shell of the bean, so we buy soft coffee out of a vending machine. nobody has time to win a toy for their sweetie anymore. look at all the Winnie the Poohs still on the shelf at that booth down there. the yellow forms a solid whale that the roof cannot hold the weight of. a whale with red eyes. nobody has time for love. we are the product of progress. and so we do our due diligence to express ourselves to ourselves. before our feelings get in the way and die. before our morals become molasses. we let our fucking do our talking!

Roger and Rafa are just there, on the bed, their butts itchy from the mattress made of microscopic cotton balls, their dicks flattened to the point of touching the unrugged floor like unrolled saltwater taffy, swaying in the cold nippy air from the window blasted open by the woman of the group, biding their remaining time in this once-in-a-lifetime fantasy.

Roger: that was the greatest pep talk i've ever been scolded with. do you want to be my coach?

Chrissie: sex coach?

Roger: sure, everything, i need a guru in my life.

Nadal: i haven't moved an inch. i've just been listening. my penis is sleeping. rested up and rarin to go.

Chrissie: stoic is sexy, this one time. everyone got on their boots?

Nadal: i even got on my Bombas socks underneath. for the explosion.

Chrissie: there won't be any cleanup i can assure you. i'm catching all your friendly fire.

she violently removes the white bedsheets from all around the bed in a swoosh and tears them a new one by poking holes in them with her long nails and generally tearing them apart in two. she makes her men lie down on the exposed part of the bed with the protruding springs.

Chrissie: i want us all to bond over feeling the pricks of the world together, cult-style.

the fucking is fast and furious. and in a flash. not that it takes seconds to cum but the trio create an environment of ungovernable demoniac fuming concentric clouds of tornadic tempest that are too hot to see clearly. knees to the groin for pleasure, elbows bending awkwardly, toes bitten, tongues licked, buttholes sucked of their juices, the swallowing of an entire buttock. and the main coarse has finally arrived at the table of love. a little dinner bell rings in Chrissie's head.

Chrissie: my biological clock has been rung. i am woman, hear me score!

she balds from all her hair being pulled out by the various tennis legends. herculean hunks of hair by the hunks.

they approach the sacred vagina with their train of cocks. Roger the locomotive, Nadal the caboose.

Roger places himself inside with a neighborly knock. no bones. Nadal has no idea what's going on, his head is spinning his eyes in every which direction along the orbital axis.

Roger: i've named my penis Andrews the Arificial Turkey Baster. it's Thanksgiving time!

Chrissie: uunngghhhhhhhhh. fill my cup with milk. don't waste a drop outside. packed with protein.

Nadal follows soon after before Chrissie can blink and lick her fresh wound.

Nadal: that was the practice turkey. this is the real thanksgiving thing. for insurance. we don't have Thanksgiving in my country, we're in a siesta when 3PM rolls around for the feast.

Chrissie: oh no! it's too much! i can't hold it all! my tungsten bottle's gonna break! auunghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Roger: *holding her hand and comforting her bald head with strokes* think of a balloon.

she allows herself one moment of respite breath, she arches her back to the shining moon up in the maroon sky above, her peepers catching a glimpse of its rays. her vulva is shaped in a perfect V as her toes stand up on end out of her boots tossed like a bullet to the chandelier above. her arms stretch into an inverted triangle swimmer's pose, her sharp fingertips stanced clasped in prayer ready to cut the water in two. she looks like the perfect silvery butterfly.

Nadal: *screaming at the top of his lungs* there is no God! WE make life!

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