The water rushed. Carried him. Joe the water slide. The liquid luge. He did not wear his shirt anymore, like his elementary school pool days (such so delicate this button of bellyboy–his lifesecret) and his modesty ran behind him, shouting and waving flares down the tubeways (Iiiinoceeeence!). The great, orange circular tract bore him like medical wash, like expellent, his life shoot–injection spurring exit wounds, giving to get, good seed for a screaming, fresh-bloomed flowerbabe. Whooosh. A daylight to life. His feet first (doctor!). And Joe smiled in preparation of discharge (Earth to bathtowl, do you read me? Come in, bathtowel). And the slick, whipping whir of a way down now flushed with fresh air, a deep breath and the slapping sound of other fish–bubbled fizz spread bursting up. He twirled, open eyed and warble world. A calm, spin-glided flailing of new limbs in old water.
Joe resurfaces and Gina stands. Glistening. Marketing. Waiting–her modesty dead in a gutter somewhere (gavel bouncing–guilty!). She was a product of her livingroom, the brainchild prodigy of parental disconnect and cream-centered, cyclical music. Proud honor student of Disney channel teen suggestives and reality TV party girls that firebrand the slut ape straight there on his primal and sex-etched stomach. Siizzzzzzz-crckzzzzzlez.
And Gina ran ahead. Splashing and pulling bikini (Cerebrus) out the midst of her celebrated and vocal dichotomy (abandon all hope). The boy wanting, racing. Quite the scratch-post. Embraced. Hard up and rucking the rack sack for all the boys of come before and after.
As if he was only because he is and this moment made because it was.