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Yeah, me and Spider-Man are fucking. We're trying not to make a big deal about it, except that it's the coolest thing in the world and I'm living out my horniest adolescent dreams.
It's a strictly masks-on situation. Usually fueled by adrenaline, or tacos, or both. We were getting gravel burn from the rooftop so I suggested we take it to my place. Now sometimes he comes over JUST to fuck ME. Can you believe it? The tail must be that good, cause the other end sure isn't pretty.
He's not a cuddler, either. In fact he's a nut-and-runner. He does try to make sure I come first, like a gentleman. Pure White Knight shit. But then he nuts and he's out the window faster than Logan when ICE knocks on the door.
(Side note, Pussycat, you could easily get your Canadian green card but you insist on going under the radar. I love you for that.)
Anyway, so one day Spider-Man comes in me, all sweet and hot, moaning and shaking and grunting like a big big man who's trying to hold back his tears. Nearly falls asleep on my back with his dick shrinking inside me, we're talking Jane Austen levels of romance. But then he snaps his eyes open and makes up some excuse about needing to get the Green Goblin flowers or something and he's gone in a Housewives of OC hotflash.
And a few minutes later, when I'm sitting down to my freshly loaded bong, there's a brown recluse on my green. It's got its arms in the air and it's waving to me.
. . .
It's something that started happening pretty recently. I don't know if the mutation went haywire last time I tried interdimensional travel, or if it's just the slow slide of genetics toward the inevitable. I've seen mutants dissolve into a puddle of dysregulated cells before. It's not pretty. Sometimes I wonder how long I have.
It usually happens when I'm relaxed. I mean, super relaxed. Comfortable, happy, safe. Spider sense retreated to the safest, darkest corner of my brain.
It...Yeah, it happens after sex sometimes.
Not every time, obviously. But I don't know exactly when it's going to come on.
So I try to be proactive.
God, I'd really like to cuddle. He's so warm. Does he run at a permanent fever?
And kiss. Make out. We never do much of that beforehand because we're both usually so amped up that we can't keep our pants on.
(This is such a bad idea. This was always a bad idea. Why does it have to be him?)
So I almost fell asleep on him. So what.
But then I could feel it, the little spider in my brain wanting to come out, and I panicked. I bolted for the window, still pulling on one boot. But I didn't make it.
I don't think he saw my body shrivel into a tiny, furry little creature, lost in the folds of spandex. I think he assumed I made it to the window. It's not like he checked the floor for extraneous clothing.
When I get like that, all small and fuzzy, my brain goes a little funny. I'm seeking safety, refuge. Warmth. Food, a mate, I don't know. Whatever the spider instincts are.
First I climb up. Up is good. Up is safe, because you can see what's down.
Wade is on his couch, packing a bowl. Of course he is, this place always reeks of bong water, but I've never stuck around long enough to see his after-sex routine.
I feel like I need to get his attention somehow. Like he can help. Why would I feel that way? What would ever make me think Deadpool would help me? I don't know, I'm telling you, spider brains are weird.
So I drop down on a web. (Yes, they do come out of my butt in spider form, thanks for asking.)
And I land on his bowl. And when he comes back in, I try to shout at him. But spiders can't shout.
. . .
"Aww. Hey little guy! Aren't you a cutie?"
The little dude Is dancing around on my bowl. Getting his little spider feet all over, good thing I'm not too picky about what touches my weed.
But I am going to have to move him to spark up. I may be a ruthless killer but I'm not going to incinerate a little spider who's minding his own business.
Well, he's not exactly minding his own business. He's currently doing some nature documentary mating dance on my Guava Lemontine Diesel.
There's a shot glass and a credit card on the coffee table, the shot glass probably had something strong in it recently, but it's dried now at least. So I coax the little guy in with the credit card and then trap him, to let him watch from the table.
. . .
This asshole. Come on, man. You really think a random spider is just trying his best TikTok dance on you right now?
And then I'm scooped up and watching him from a sticky shot glass. It reeks of vodka in here.
The absolute gall of this man. I squint all eight of my eyes in frustration.
He takes a giant rip and his eyes roll back a little as he holds it in. He blows it out long and smooth.
"Uuuuuhhh. Legal weed, my beloved. They are doing things with strains these days that would make your college neighbor who sold dusty dime bags's head spin."
Ha. He's right about that. Not that I smoke much. It doesn't agree with me, usually. But I love a good edible, and gummies are much easier to dose correctly these days.
He picks up the card and shot glass, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger so he can hold me up to his eye.
"Bet you don't know anything about that, huh? Poor little guy. Probably never had a Sour Birthday Cookie Gas puff in you're miserable little life."
I stand right in front of the glass, beating on it with the tiniest and most ineffectual fists imaginable, staring him in his big blue eye.
"Oh really? You want to taste? I mean, I was just going to let you out on the fire escape. But I think I can do my new little friend a solid and get you nice and buzzed first."
No. No no no no no. What are you doing? You absolute tool. You idiot. Why don't you rub your two fucking brain cells together for once? Afraid it's going to catch fire and burn that empty skull down?
He takes another giant rip. He turns the shot glass over, shaking it a little bit so I fall to the bottom. Then he blows in, the warm, thick smoke swirling around me.
"There you go, little guy. Enjoy that one on the house. My thanks, for getting rid of the fruit flies in the kitchen, if that was you."
I feel woozy. Light-headed. My eyes blink slowly, not even all at once. I just want to curl my limbs around me protectively and fall asleep, so that's what I do. It must not take very much to get a spider blazed.
. . .
Wow, it must not take very much to get a spider blazed. The poor little guy has curled into a ball at the bottom of the glass. I'm suddenly worried that I've cut off his oxygen supply, so I take off the credit card to let the smoke clear.
I flip the TV on. A million subscription services, and somehow I end up on the Tobey Maguire Spidey movie again. He's so cute, with his pinchable little accident-prone face. Kinda dumb. Seems fitting.
"Ooh! I know what's needed. Snacks. Massive amounts of snacks."
I get up to rummage around. When I come back with a Slim Jim and several Chips Ahoy and a Gatorade (I did just have mind-blowing sex too. Post mind-blowing sex stoned munchies are the best. It's carbo-load time) there is...
There's. A man.
On my floor.
He's naked.
"Um. Hello? Are you an angel? Did you fall from the sky? I don't see a hole in the ceiling..."
The shot glass is sitting beside him.
He appears to be passed out, rumpled brown hair stuck to the sides of his head. Nose and cheeks freckled, body...
Body...
Oh. I know that body.
"...Wade?"
His eyes blink open, well, partly open, they're bloodshot as fuck.
I look around for a minute, trying to figure out where the Punk'd cameras are. It's then that I notice, next to the window, a pile of clothes.
"...Did you come back into my apartment, get undressed, take a big rip, and squish my new spider friend? Or..."
He sits up a little, tries to look around, and then his head bounces back onto the carpet.
"You're an idiot."
It's then that I finally set down my pile of snacks and kneel next to him.
"Bet your eyes are pretty when they're not all red. They're pretty now, actually."
I'm smiling, because obviously I am.
He moves his hand over his eyes as if trying to hide them. As if I haven't already memorized their exact shape. If they ever call me into identify a lineup I'm going to get the sketch artist to draw Spider-Man just so I can have a picture of him without his mask. Because there's no way he's letting me snap a pic right now.
"Fucking moron."
I pick up my Slim Jim and snap a bite off, chewing while I ask questions.
"So how long have you been afflicted by this? And is it just a post sex thing? I mean, you're welcome to come be a spider anytime with me. You can ride on my shoulder for jobs if you want."
"Ugh." He mutters. "Do not want."
"All right. You don't appear to be having the best time right now. Want me to get you some sweats? Maybe some water? A snack? A dick for your mouth or a mouth for your dick? I have both willing and ready."
He takes his hand off his eyes and looks at me. Really looks at me. Oh God. Spider-Man is looking at me. With his real eyes. Which are brown. Did I say that? Did I mention the freckles? Oh God.
"...Yeah. That'd be great, actually... The clothes and the food, I mean. Maybe the dick can wait."
I wink at him. Of course the dick can wait. The dick's going to wait for him as long as he wants it to. It's going to sit, and stay, and behave itself and be a good boy.
"I guess. Not too long, though."
. . .
Somehow I'm sitting on Wade's couch, wearing super cozy sweats, dunking Chips Ahoy in milk. I made him change the show, he let me put on Battlestar Galactica without even bitching about it too much. He must feel guilty for accidentally hotboxing me.
He sits down, eyeing his bong. He finds a grungy toothpick on the table and pokes around the bowl.
"One more hit of this, don't want to let it go to waste. If you don't mind..."
He looks up at me with a genuinely sincere question in his eyes, like he's worried about an offending my tender sensibilities with his second-hand smoke.
I set down the milk and the cookie box.
"Actually... could I have another hit, maybe? Or... My lungs kind of suck. Maybe a shotgun?"
He breaks out in a grin and shoves the bong on his face, taking a big rip while he waggles his eyebrows at me. After he inhales fully and sets the bong down I'm on him, locking lips and sucking in the slightly acrid smoke. It's a little better after being filtered through his cancer ridden body, I guess.
I don't want to take my mouth off his.
I let the warm, damp vapor out around his lips and then kiss him. And I keep kissing him. And I grab his shirt, and his hot hand is on the back of my neck and we're still kissing. I could get lost here. I might be getting lost here right now.
. . .
Spider-Man is laying on my chest on the couch when it happens again. He had finally stopped kissing me, and kind of sagged against me until we were horizontal. He muttered something about me being warm. I patted his head and let him zone out on his comfort show.
And then it happens again. His body shrinks under my hand, and I snap it up, realizing what's happening before I crush him. Then there's an empty sweatshirt and sweatpants laid out over me. Well, almost empty.
After a few seconds he comes crawling out.
"Hey! There you are!"
He crawls up my neck and cheek. Up to my nose. I have to cross my eyes to look at him but I can see eight tiny eyes staring back at me.
"You are cute, you know. I wasn't lying. Even when I thought you were just a random brown recluse eating my fruit flies. You're always cute."
He blinks his eyes. That's so cool.
He climbs up my nose and settles on my forehead. I can feel him up there. Kind of tickles. Must be warm.