Donkey Punch

by W. M. Butler
Being in a long distance love affair is hard work in Shanghai. The distance, the occasional clandestine meetings in hotel rooms across the world. Bali, Bangkok, Phuket, Las Vegas, and in Shanghai. Each meeting a frenzied melding together of fucking, fighting, and making up. Emotions turned up to hard boiled. You go from pure love to lust then hate, spite, fear and finally a numbing tired yawning in your belly when it’s time to leave again. You stumble over yourselves trying to apologize for all the accusations and venom that you’ve been spitting at each other for the past seven days, trying to remember the good times, the coke binges, the walks through ancient Chinese temples built in 1998 where you stopped to fuck in the bathroom, or behind the stage after that event or getting that blowjob on a red-eye flight, spaced out on Xanax and KFC egg tarts. Trying to make sense of all the laughing and the crying and the screaming about not loving each other enough.

Then there’s trying to maintain a healthy sexual dynamic to the relationship online but that too is hard when you’re not there to tie her up and she can only bind one hand to her ankle by herself or only has two hands and three dildos. And even if you do get something going, one of you is either tired because of the 14 hour time difference or you can’t get online because they’ve put up a new high rise next door and it’s blocking the signal. Maybe it’s the fact that one of you wants it and the other one doesn’t. Maybe the fighting has gotten in the way again and you don’t know how to treat each other kindly, or maybe, just maybe what you think is a fight is her way of trying to get you fuck her over a growingly impotent 3G signal on your phone as you try to masturbate in the corner while standing on one leg and half leaning out the window and you just kind of, sort of loose your enthusiasm for the whole bloody thing. Or perhaps, more to the point you have the new season of Spartacus and it’s just easier to jerk off to something that won’t cut off halfway through or only sometimes when your DVD player freezes up but if you’re lucky it gets stuck on a really good titty shot and you can squeeze one out before you have to turn the machine off and reboot the whole thing. Or fuck, maybe it’s just Shanghai that’s kills the desire. If you live here long enough you get cynical about everything, even sex. The condoms that break, that don’t fit or maybe you’re afraid the lube they use will make your dick fall off because it’s made out of anthrax or something. Maybe it’s the women in the bars, in the pink doors, in your class, in your office, the crushing insincerity of it all. Who knows? It’s a goddamn cluster fuck.

But every once in a while when the stars align and things actually work out and you both manage to be horny and free and awake and not drunk and the Internet works and your device has enough battery power. You can actually have some pretty good cyber sex. The kind that can save a relationship. The kind where your toes curl up and you end up banging your head on the wall while trying to come and capture a flattering angle of your cock during the money shot. When things go right and she’s worked out a position that can accommodate all three dildos and both of you end up coming together. You begin to realize its all worth it when your post coital texting goes something like this,

— I totally hurt my back fucking myself in the ass today. I’m not kidding. I came and jerked and the way I was reaching around…
— I’m in serious pain.
— I’m sorry baby.
— I think I donkey punched myself
— Do you even know what a donkey punch is?
— No…will you give me one?
— Hahaha.
—What?
— Nothing… I love you baby.