Collected Stories

Spike's Rise and Fall by J.D. Coltrane

I lay naked on my back in the middle of the hotel room floor. There were no sounds around me, nor was there another person. I was alone except for Spike.

I looked down my stomach and saw Spike standing there quietly. His brainless head was swollen and turned a purplish red. His longish neck led down to a shoulderless body of loosened skin and dual globed mass. His one eye was squinting at me, watching me, maybe trying to tell me something that way, with his squinting, gaping eye, since he had no mouth with which to speak.

“You got something to say?” I asked him.

Immediately, I felt stupid since there was no way Spike could speak.

Mr. Ed. Yeah, Mr. Ed, I thought. Mr. Ed could speak and he was a fucking horse. But he had a mouth. No, wait, even when somebody other than his dork-ass owner was around, even the dork’s hot wife, Mr. Ed spoke by some kind of stomping code. Yeah, one for yes, two for no. Yes and no questions. Or counting. Numbers. Mr. Ed could handle numbers, too.

“Okay, Spike,” I began slowly. “If you can understand me, lurch or jerk once for yes. If you can’t understand English or something and want to say no, then lurch or jerk twice.” And, of course, I told myself, if you don’t understand anything, don’t do anything, just leave me here to probe my insanity alone.

I watched Spike closely. He lurched once toward me, then stopped as if to wait for another question.

Holy Shit, I thought. Spike, my cock, the only cock I’ve ever had, the only cock I’ve ever touched, the cock I grew up with and learned about so many things with, that very cock, the same one, the only one, Spike, was talking to me. Holy Motherfucking Shit.

Before I thought, I asked him if he needed anything to drink. Old habits of Southern hospitality die hard and leave you feeling stupid when they leap out of you at the wrong time.

Spike lurched twice quickly, then he seemed to waver from side to side as if he was shaking his head at me and my stupidity.

“You need something?” I asked.

He lurched once and seemed to release a small drop of pre-cum for emphasis.

“Yeah?”

I was stalling then trying to think of a good yes or no question to ask next.

“Pussy?”

That got one huge lurch.

“Blowjob?”

Another quick, hard lurch.

“Piss?”

Two quick lurches and another series of side to side sways.

“But this is St. Louis, Spike,” I found myself trying to explain, “And I, er, we don’t know anybody, any women, in St. Louis.”

A bigger drop of pre-cum rose in Spike’s eye, and seemed to build there like a tear.

I took a deep breath and tried to put together the words I knew I needed to say.

“Seems like it’s just me and you, Old Buddy,” I told him without looking down at him. “Hell, we’ve been through this before, you know. Being alone, just the two of us. Hey, you remember that time in Japan when you spit in the ocean?”

I looked down at him then, hoping beyond hope that somehow I had raised his spirits, but what I saw almost broke my heart. The drop of pre-cum was running down his head like a hot tear of loneliness and despair.

I didn’t know what to say to him next, so I reached down and grasped his neck to console him.

“Cheer up, Spike,” I said as I began to rub him slowly.

I took in another deep breath and felt the messages Spike was sending me through our balls.

“You remember that pussy you sank into in Wisconsin?”

I didn’t look down at him but I could feel him lurch in my hand.

“God, she was good. And so eager, too, huh?”

My hand began consoling Spike faster. I could feel his pre-cum tears running down over my fingers, wetting his neck and my pubic hair.

“And that night in New York City? In the elevator?”

Our balls were singing in honor of these memories, singing in harmony with Spike and me and our chorus of recollections.

“Damn. And the woman in the stairwell? How she told us she wanted you in her ass right there?”

Spike lurched hard and drooled more tears. My hand responded by stroking faster and longer, letting my fingers move up over his wet tip, spreading the pre-cum and pleasure.

I could tell Spike was close to spitting. Our balls were singing but they weren’t off-duty.

Spike grew bigger in my hand and began to feel harder and hotter.

“Go ahead, Spike,” I told him in a whisper, “Do your thing, Pal.”

Spike launched his salvo up and onto my stomach at uneven intervals and quantities.

“Yeah, you go, Dude,” I murmured as my hand consoled him through his event, slowing its pace and squeezing the last of Spike’s event out his eye.

“Yeah, fucking St. Louis, Spike,” I told him taking a very deep breath. “We gotta get to know St, Louis.”

Spike lurched once in my hand then and fell silent.