Totally Fucked

Part I — The Opening

“If you go any deeper,” said Lola, “you’ll make contact with my sanity. I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

But Alton was too far gone. He continued his assault on her pleasure centers until her mouth fell open in a supernatural way. The timing of it couldn’t have been worse, since he was pushing his way toward the place where the soul and body are connected. With a powerful thrust, he drove himself between the two, unintentionally freeing her soul from its attachment to her body. It rose up, reached her mouth, and rushed out the hole in her face only to discover that Alton had seconds earlier enveloped that hole with his own lips.

Before anyone knew what was happening, the soul entered his oral cavity and was swallowed in the excitement.

Neither of them was ever able to recall whether or not any orgasms punctuated the engagement: he experienced a critical degree of disorientation when his body was forced to adjust to the internal presence of a second soul in a space that had never been meant to contain more than one; and she, at that point, was missing a soul and had therefore lost the will to care. It wasn’t until Alton came to on the floor that anyone even knew it had ended.

“I feel like I was caught in a brutal sex explosion,” he said to Lola, who looked like the ghost of someone who’d forgotten to die.

When he saw her like that, he tried to get up and go to her and save her from what he assumed was a profound, mortal loneliness, but his efforts were stifled by a series of terrible abdominal cramps that swept through him like a forest fire. He screamed and he screamed, and his screams were accompanied by a second set of screams.

While Alton struggled with the pain, Lola was as silent as before or after the universe.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked her. “What did I do?”

Like a wall, she stared at a wall.

“Is this about your mother? Your father? The thing I said about that thing?”

And then came the rattling nausea that struck him and the spectacular discharge that followed it.

For the next few hours, Alton was plagued by repeated bouts of violent, spiritual vomiting, during which he spewed forth the brightest, purest, and most blinding white light, a light that quickly burned the color from any surface it made contact with. This caused the destruction of several feet of carpeting in two different rooms, the ruin of multiple bathroom fixtures, and the discoloration of a local mailman.

Between eruptions, Alton tried to discuss the situation with Lola.

“The weird vomiting, the ominous way you’re resting on the bed. I think I’ve swallowed your soul,” he said. “That’s probably not good for either of us.”

Lola was not in the mood to talk much, and it was better that way. The few times she did say something, her cold voice spoke to all the hearts in the world, making them suddenly aware that behind the cage of ribs, they would never know any other beating but their own and would thus always be alone.

No one felt this more than Alton himself, who really wanted Lola’s help in figuring out what to do. He was acutely aware of her nonresponsiveness, but that didn’t stop him from peppering her with questions or from hitting her in the head with a pillow when her unflinching silence finally got to him. In his defense, it was not a completely senseless act of violence; he hadn’t fully realized what it meant to be without a soul, so he thought it might shock her back to reality. When it didn’t, watching her tip over so lifelessly led him to an important conclusion.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! This is just totally fucked. Shit shit shit shit shit! Shit! This is totally fucked!”

Through the panic, Alton would continue to express symptoms:

• He farted, and it was like fireflies...