The man’s first steps of morning are in a concentrated, Religious manner. They aren’t in a wine-stained, cross stepping clumsy haste like most commoner’s first gasps of life into the day. This man is a man who knows how to hold himself. This man knows himself, and prides himself as if he were someone else hoisted up onto the shoulders of his power. He lies within himself and apart from himself, but also too, within.
He steps into a crystal chamber, surrounded by polished steel fountainheads. He flips a wall switch with cool calculation and the whole chamber comes alive. He is surrounded by it first, then consumed by it, absorbed in the sharp mist of millions of smooth pellets of water that stab the man’s skin. He takes in that water, absorbs it into his skin, takes it into his mouth like the whore the self with the self his, and gets that water where nothing else goes, in his ass, under the balls, the armpits. Moreover he floods the dry inner valley of the self with this water and fills that hole of want with this water. And suddenly, the water stops.
He lets himself drip dry as he downs an entire crystal tumbler of water. After an “Agh oh-my-god-this-world,” he looks at the back of the label and reads, in tasteful dark blue,


D’angio Reserve

        Water retrieved from ice frozen for millions of years. Since the primordial days of
               creation, the only thing willing to testify to its simplicity, its beauty and clean taste
                       is this water, water torn from timeliness and implanted into today.

cured at D’angio water curing facilities in Belgium and packaged and implanted into the market in France.

    Down the porcelain path to his balcony. He stares out, far out, into the expanse of Lake Superior, basking in the importance of its waved surface, reaching out into its smooth center, reaching out to coast, sculpting the surface of the sand, and pulling in while also constantly pushing out. Looking down at the coast, his vision went southward, staring down at his rock-hard cock, just looking out at the ocean already caused him to be dribbling with pre-cum. He grabbed the base in a nervous trance, but then…no, no, not now. He knew he would have to save himself for an even greater burst, he knew he would have to have a larger build-up.
    He lunges for an intercom on the wall, “Johnson,” he calls out to the cold plastic microphone on the wall.
    “Yes,” the wall speaker answers back.
    “I need two things,”
    “What would that be, sir?”
    “I need a high power hose that can pump Giangio Reserve, and the dryest abandoned football field in Texas.”
    “Well, Texas is quite a ways away, when would you like this ready by?”
    “If I leave now I can get there by 4 o’clock, can you get one ready by then?
    “Yes sir.”
    “Oh, and don’t forget to have a professional photographer there.”
    “Of course, would you like him to video the event or rather just photograph it?
    “Oh, video, make it 1920x1440 and sixty frames-per-second.”
    “Yes, I believe that can be arranged.”
    “Alright have the jet out and ready.”
    He skids toward his closet, hastily slapping on clothing, then, a great running out to his plane, when, after a few empty moments, he is seated and in the air.
    He shakes his leg frantically, staring out the window, listening to the new Swans record. The man is on edge, requiring extreme discipline not to whip out his cock and a bottle of water.
    After 8 hours in flight he descends at the nearest private airport, where he sprints to the the adjacent helicopter in his hangar, the pilot all ready and willing to go. When they rise he shakes, leaning out of the machine in hopes he’ll see his brown dream, the mountain top of his desire, of this football field gasping for air, the green blades all dead from the dryness of the air. Oh he would flood them, he will fill that dry cracked earth with his substance.
    Finally, oh sweetly, oh finally he sees that field.
    “Bring us down!” he yelled in anticipation, in crossing the threshold from fantastical scheming to reality.
    He hops off of the descending helicopter, breaking something, or twisting it, something unnoticeable at this moment. He sees the man holding the hoes to him, sees the man opposite him in a raincoat and a camera on tripod. The man runs toward the hose, his feet crunching dry grass underneath stockinged foot.
    The man seizes the hose and stops. Takes in the air around him, stares at this moment of stillness, and then looking at the cloudless sky, motions to turn the hose on.
    The water trills out, and then steady. He tastes it. It’s definitely nutrient rich D’angio Reserve. And he looks down at the ground and points the high powered hose toward it. It blasts the earth, little puddles forming at the dirty surface, crawling in between blades of grass but only briefly. The water tables being empty caused the ground to just imbibe the sweet intoxicant. The man smiles and pulls the hose up, causing the water to shoot up, and disperse itself around him, and little precious diamond droplets would scatter across the field. He soon gets close to the earth, digging a hole with frantic hands, and just, shoving the hose deep into that shallow hole, causing the water to just burst into the earth, and fill its emptiness with that timeless tonic.
    Now the man, in total loss of control points the hose toward him and drenches himself, rolls in it and licks the earth. In this shuffle he manages to unzip himself, screaming frantically and pleasuring himself at the same time, rolling in his substance and finally, tipping on explosion and then stopping, this stop a moment of climax and then the burst. He pops milk white all over onto the wet earth, the waves of himself and the waves of reality all crashing toward him, towards his shore and the semen and water all modeling what he is and his shape and the self within the self.
    He gets up, all covered in semen and water, and walks back to the helicopter, with an empty grin. The photographer, a 22 year old in a tie-dye shirt looks at him humorlessly. “I’ll render it and have it sent to you, okay?”
    The man doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t say anything.
    In his plane, on the way back home, he looks out of the window, his hair towel dried.
    “I want a child, I want a little baby boy, I want a son.”
    He cries a little, and then falls asleep.