Massuterbation
Masuda
R, 172 words
Summer is always hot and sticky in Masuda's analog house, but he likes it that way. He likes it when he can brush a hand against his arm and wipe away a puddle of sweat and he likes the brisk coolness of the bamboo mats, covered with linen sheets, against his bare skin. He likes touching himself, too, sometimes trailing relaxed fingers around the contours of his own muscles and sometimes gripping flesh tightly in the fire of his palm. There's something in the still, almost stifling air of a summer night that's so purely physical; Masuda empties his mind in hedonistic pleasure because this sort of weather was never created for any thought deeper than ohhh that's fucking good. Masuda's nostrils flare in appreciation of the dusty-sweet smell that floats in through the screen window and his gut twists, somewhere deep inside his abdomen, as he gulps down the midnight blue air. The sound of cicadas tips him over the edge and he contributes his own vocals to their chirping chorus.