He puts his thumb up to the small string that connects your gums to the top of your lip, forcing my mouth apart. He puts one finger in, then two, then three, and I can feel myself gagging. I try to push them out with my tongue, and he spreads them out, pulling my cheeks apart, like a dentist. Or a murderer. I put my hands up to his forearm, scratching, and bite down.
"Jesus," he says, immediately yanking backward, examining his skin for blood. "Did I hurt you?"
My mouth feels dry, and salty, like I can't shut it, and I speak in a very quiet voice, "No--I just--don't like that."
"Sorry. You said you were like, into rough shit."
"You can do whatever you want--just--not that. I don't--like that." I push my lips closed with my hand and frown.
He looks down at me, and laughs, making a scrunched up face then rolls over onto his side. He tilts his head back and shakes it. "That always freaks me out. Like--people's limitations. You can slap the shit out of somebody, or call them a cunt and it's totally fine, but if you spit on them, they'll freak out. Everybody's got some--thing. It's weird."
"It's not like that. It's not like--a degrading thing--I just--have these nightmares. It reminds me of something."
He sits up, pulling a blanket against his emaciated carcass, and reaches his long arm to the floor for a pack of cigarettes, and lights one. "What?"
"It reminds me that--everyone's face is a lie."
He takes a drag and smiles, "What does that mean?"
"It means--with your hand like that---it reminds me of my teeth. It reminds me that--if you pull the mask back--you're just a skull underneath."