vignette: REVELation

Epiphany, when it came to Miggy Montano, arrived with much of the force and many of the trappings of biblical revelation. It might have been the lighting of the club that contributed to this semblance of holy awakening: the hectic, stained-glass hues that strobed across Miggy’s upturned face and the torso of the young god whose penis was most palpably yearning to spill its own sacramental libation down Miggy’s industriously-laboring throat.

There, in that place, at that moment, and on his knees, Miggy realized with a curiously relieved finality that he had, quite simply, had enough. “I’m tired,” Miggy said, as much to himself as to anyone, having released the straining penis as tactfully as possibly from the confines of his overstrained jaws.

“Hunnh?” said the young god—whose name, Miggy suspected, might be Paul. It was a name that started with ‘P’, at any rate; and he felt sure that he would have remembered the hilarious aptness, all things considered, had the name happened to be ‘Peter’.

“I’m tired,” Miggy said again; adding, for good measure, “I’m sorry.”

“Nnno,” said Possibly-Paul, blinking, visibly straining to return to earth from whatever level of heaven he had so far managed to attain. “No. Hey. That’s—cool. You know. Take a break, if you—It’s cool—”

“No, I mean I’m tired of this. All this,” Miggy said, not really sure why he felt the need to explain, least of all to someone whose name he hadn’t even bothered to commit to memory. “I’m 37 years old and I spend my weekends cruising just to wind up with some young thing’s dick in my mouth. It’s not that I mind—I mean, obviously, I don’t mind—but I’m getting to the point where spending my evenings on my fucking knees has just stopped being my idea of nirvana.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Possibly-Paul. “You wanna just get to the fucking? We can go upstairs; I know the manager here…”

Helplessly, Miggy felt the laughter bubble up inside him, effervescent as the antacids (‘Dissolve two tablets in water’) he had started having to take in the aftermath of these all-night sexual no-longer-adventures. With an effort, he controlled the impulse to laugh in the young god’s face—or in the general region of his genitalia, more accurately—and contented himself with saying, “Jesus fuck.”

He rose to his feet, feeling the joints of his knees pop—if not quite with the audible creak of middle age, then certainly with the ominous threat of its inevitability. “Jesus fuck,” he repeated, marveling at his ability to be both amused and appalled at the same time.

“What’s that, like, with my arms spread out and my legs straight down? I can do that,” said Possibly-Paul, apparently eager to oblige his abruptly-unengorged partner. “That’s cool, too.”

Shaking his head, Miggy Montano walked away from the young god, toward the exit, and through the outpouring of unsuppressed mirth that accompanied this sudden revelation—whether divinely inspired or demon-driven—that he wanted more from the rest of his life than simply the rest of his life.

And gods young and old, he reasoned—as much to himself as to anyone—could go fuck themselves. Or find someone else to do it.