My boyfriend and my girlfriend and I won ourselves a cum somm’s private cum tasting experience at the Glassell Park Masonic Lodge’s silent auction in support of the Los Feliz Children’s Needle Exchange Foundation. $800. We split the cost, 50-25-25. Me being the 50-percent chunk there, because they were both kind of bums.

Us trio arrived at the cum somm’s Echo Park residence on the designated day. It was March, rainy. Had to park two blocks over and my boyfriend wouldn’t quit bitching about it, though my girlfriend seemed to appreciate the brief, brisk walk through the semi-fresh air (semi-fresh about the best you can do here).

—Do you think we’ll spit or swallow, my girlfriend wondered.

—I’m not familiar with the decorum, my boyfriend replied. 

We knocked at the door to the cum somm’s innocent, stucco, ranch-style home, the three of us knocking together at once, cute-like, an adventure. To our shared surprise, and despite its normal-door appearance, the entrance slid open sideways, sounding of slithering steel. Its machinery made a whirling noise. 

—Welcome, said a squat, muscular man standing in the doorframe, —welcome to Chester’s House of Cum. I’m your cum somm, Chester.

—We figured! said my boyfriend.

—We’ve been looking forward to this! said my girlfriend.

—Come in, bwah ha ha, said cum somm Chester. 

He beckoned us and we followed. Door slid closed like a tomb sealing. We walked down a long hallway lined upon every available inch with framed photographs, subjects of all sorts organized in no immediately identifiable way, photos of, for instance, gorillas, bridges, women in labor, skyscrapers, seamounts, orchards, pineapple plantations, hardcore bondage, polite group sex, two men with a double-ended dildo down their throats (the one on the left being today’s cum somm), bungie jumpers, hang-gliders, a nude beach, mountains of food, a soccer game, a chess tournament, knifeplay, snakeplay, a donkey show; at the end of the hall, glossy black-and-white portraits depicting the sort of water sports which occur upon a lake and the sort of water sports which occur inside a motel room lived next to each other, the only apparent curatorial contrivance here. 

—You lead a colorful life, Chester, if I can call you Chester, I said to cum somm Chester. 

—It’s really pretty boring these days, he admitted, —and please: call me cum somm Chester. 

We walked through his living room: tasteful, a touch spartan, with antique light fixtures, immaculately clean shag carpeting massaging my Crocs, a sunken couch and fireplace, and one of those curved TVs. No art on the walls, he’d saved it all for the hallway, I figured. 

—This is where I do most of my entertaining, said Chester.

—Oh neat, said my girlfriend.

—But we’re going to the back house, said Chester. 

—Oh wow, said my boyfriend. 

—It was a detached garage, said Chester, —but I built it out, now it’s my bespoke cum tasting room, don’t tell the city. 

—We won’t, I said. 

Out through sliding glass doors to the backyard, far more ordinary than the entrance, they slid the normal way. The backyard, though, was miserable, cemented over entirely save for one skinny patch of dead garden. 

—Used to grow my own fruits and veggies, aromatics, it’s for the taste, said cum somm Chester, —but I’m just traveling too much these days, and I’m single, sadly, no one to tend to the plants while I’m in, say, Perth or Pretoria; I raid the Farmer’s Market instead now for engagements such as ours. 

—Good to be so in demand, though! said my boyfriend.

—You must be thrilled with your professional life! said my girlfriend. 

—Congrats, I said. 

Cum somm Chester bowed to us and unlocked a padlock and then a deadbolt on the ornate French doors of his cum tasting room. —Come in, come in (haha), let’s get this party started, he said. 

We followed him inside, where there was a whole operation going atop a massive cultured-marble kitchen island, decanters and glasses and beakers and Bunsen burners and platters of portioned food in itty plastic cups, pineapple rings, cucumber slices, bites of rare sirloin. Substantial Sonos speakers dangled from the ceiling, plasticine stalactites over laminate floors. And against the far whitewashed wall, five nude men, erect already, stood in a line facing us, as if for some group audition or smutty police lineup. 

Cum somm Chester said, —These are, gesturing left to right, —Tony, Fabian, Orlando, Ricky, and Koji. The whole line nodded together at their introduction, and then they all did a little thrust. —You’ll get to taste them all many times today. 

—I’m so psyched, said my girlfriend.

—This is going to be totally great, said my boyfriend. 

He was starting to touch himself, my boyfriend, I could see him stiffening in his board shorts. I told him quietly, —I don’t know if that’s the tenor here.

Cum somm Chester must have overheard me, he said, —Please, go for it, let it out, we can sample your seed, too. His index finger punched at his phone screen several times until heavy music began to ring through the speakers above, Ministry’s Psalm 69 record, I think it was. —This is actually going to be what I’d call a cum ceremony, he said, —rather than a tasting. 

We feed the men, —My bulls, says cum somm Chester; we feed them sweet slices of citrus and flakes of seared tuna. They groan in honest joy. My boyfriend delivers handjobs to the two on the left at the same time, Tony and Fabian; my girlfriend, who’s already soaked through her cutoffs in arousal, sucks on Koji. Cum somm Chester rubs down Orlando in the center. —I milk him like so, he says, shooting a jet of Orlando’s seed into a shining merlot glass. He asks us who shall take the first taste. I grab the glass and chug down an ounce of Orlando’s milky. 

In my warmth, I expand into every moment. A hundred thousand years of wisdom surge through me. I jump onto Ricky, the only unoccupied bull, and let him finish in my asshole. He scratches my back to blood and whispers, —We each five bulls have ourselves an allotment of land. Enthusiastically consenting cum tenant-farmers work the soil and pump each other and us (or we just watch). Cum somm Chester arranged this all. In our five pleasure palaces, we bulls scheme whilst eating one another’s cum. We visit each other to taste each other, though sometimes we get busy and ship our spunk out instead. 

(—They have entered the Cum State, I hear cum somm Chester say from somewhere so far away, for I’m running through purest air, bouncing on alkaline clouds, charging into the sun, —we should all of us aspire to such a state.) 

—I have a dungeon, Ricky continues, —the grandest dungeon across all histories and pre-histories, across all possible realities, and you can stay in there anytime, bed of cum-washed stone reserved for you permanently in my loveliest, most intimate oubliette. Lived there myself for a thousand years. I was waiting out the Cum War, which in that stage was most heated between Fabian’s and Koji’s factions. (Once again, he finishes inside me.) 

—When they grew tired of sowing the land with their pearly beads and spattering blood, they’d take a break and visit my dungeon in détente, they’d shower in my sperm while I hanged from an installation attached to my dungeon’s ceiling. In there, I keep another 40 bulls. They are not as good as us five, for we are the five greatest, the best-tasting of the bulls, but my personal bulls taste of everything still, as well, they taste of silk and cinnamon and I drink every drop, unless I’m feeling like I need a power-wash up in my prostate, that is! (He throws me to the ground and finishes in my mouth [tastes of: coriander, salmon roe, Thai basil]; he picks me back up and continues his jackhammering of me against the cold kitchen island [or it’s a pillar of sandstone, smoothed by the eons]) 

—Nobody can die in the fiefdoms. No, that’s not exactly right. You die but are reborn straight away. Death exists but means something else, it means little. And as soon as you’re born, we got you on the cum bottle; in your second life, you’ll have eaten more cum by age 15 than you on your current plane will by age 99. We are only violent because we worship each other. We are designed for cum. Koji keeps a ghostly moat of it surrounding his pleasure palace; I’ve sworn off visiting him there until I can promise myself not to drink 10 liters of it at a time, which has not happened yet. And how many people do I taste in those 10 liters? All of humanity, every spirit, we have all left our mark on that moat, or have pissed in it if we couldn’t get wet or get it up or offer some other alternative, et cetera, what have you, everyone is included and we enjoy piss too, obviously, we like it a lot, surprise surprise, though it is cum we commune with, as you’re experiencing right now, as you will never not experience from now on. (Ricky finishes again, shrieks that he has only one or two more bursts left in him; my boyfriend and my girlfriend feed us spears of pineapple from across the kitchen island.) 

—I will drown you in cum for all eternity and all eternities, says Ricky, —cum will be your sky and sea and your cave deep in the Earth, where you’ll find me, finishing into the perfect well of your throat.