It started when I was about ten. Eleven. Whenever boys start doing that kind of thing. I'd wake up and there would be all these bugs in my bed.
Tiny black and amber bugs. Dozens of them. All dead.
I didn't know what was going on.
I showed my parents.
They hired an exterminator. Thought maybe they were some kind of termite. Exterminator sprayed the house, but didn't find anything.
It kept happening.
My parents started thinking maybe I was putting them there on purpose to get attention.
I stopped telling them. I just made sure to scoop the bugs up every morning.

When I was thirteen I was in my room, on the computer, and I was....touching myself. And for the first time, I came.
Except instead of semen, it was bugs.
A stream of tiny, flying black and amber bugs shot out of my dick.
I screamed. Fell out of my chair. It was like something out of a horror movie. I was scrambling, ready to run out my room and then....
They started to glow.
The bugs. Flying around my room and glowing.
Not blinking like fireflies. Just this soft, steady yellow glow. They floated around the ceiling of my room for maybe a minute. Then they started to die.
One by one they fell. Their light going out.
I thought--Oh my God, that was terrible. I can't ever do that again.
But I was a thirteen year old boy, so fifteen minutes later, same thing. Bugs--flying, glowing, dying.
I didn't tell anyone. I was young, but I wasn't stupid. Besides, it didn't hurt. It felt good. Like it was supposed to. Nothing else seemed wrong, so I figured--why should I bother telling anyone? My parents would just worry.
So I cleaned up the dead bugs and kept my mouth shut.

Things got harder when I got older. I had girlfriends. We'd start getting serious, they'd wonder why I never let it go farther.
I wanted to. I really wanted to. I tested out some condoms by myself. It was ...not pretty. I wasn't going to subject a girl to that. I was horny, I wasn't a monster. So I always made sure I stopped before I came.
Sometimes I'd fake it. Pretend I came, pull out, go home and jerk off. Watch the bugs create constellations across my ceiling.

Got all the way through high school doing that.
Then two months into my first semester at college, I get drunk. First time I'd ever really gotten drunk. My girlfriend at the time, she went down on me. I forgot all about control.
I came in her mouth. She was coughing and choking. Screaming. I tried to explain, but...

We broke up.
I figured that was it. Celibacy forever.

Word started getting out. About what I could do.
That's when things got really weird.
I had girls showing up at my dorm room. Guys, too. They wanted to see it. I told them to get lost.
Then one girl, she said she'd give me twenty dollars. Not to touch. Just to watch.
So I said what the fuck and took her money and did it. I remember--she reached up and grabbed one of them and held it in her hand. Let it glow. Die.
She seemed so happy.
Then so sad.
All the people I'd turned away started showing up with money. Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred dollars. Just to watch.
The university found out. They didn't know what to do with me, so they kicked me out. Violation of school policy. Running a business out of a dorm room. No big deal. I was never much into school. I got my own place, put up an ad on Craig's List. Which worked okay.
Most of the people were pretty normal. Some were weird. A few scared me.
This one guy wouldn't let me leave his apartment. He kept trying to get me to do it again and again. Every time the bugs died, he'd get so angry. When he wasn't looking, I went out through the window.
Most people were cool. They didn't even want to touch me. Just watch the bugs.

By then I didn't really need the ad. People who were into this kind of shit knew about me. I started getting invited to do parties. Really exclusive gigs.
They'd have me in the middle of the room doing my thing. People would sit in a circle and have cocktails and watch. Sometimes people would ignore me altogether. They were too busy talking.
Did a sex party once. That was weird. People fucking on inflattable mattresses.
The bugs always flew over to them. They seemed to be attracted to sweat and spit and, like, fluids? Which got a little gross, you know?

I got to hate the parties. I felt like a freak with all the people staring. I'd always come home exhausted and sore But it paid really well, so I didn't quit.

Then about a year ago, I was doing this one gig. I think it was a Tony Awards after-party. Everybody was gossiping and starfucking. Except for this one guy. He wasn't talking or mingling. He just sat in a corner, sipped his drink, and watched me all night long.
At the end of the night he came up.
What kind of bugs are those? he asked.
I said I didn't know. Fireflies, I guess.
He said, no. No, they're not. They're not the right size and their abdomen isn't the right shape.
He said he was an entomologist at the Museum of Natural History. He asked if I'd meet him sometime. Talk about my...special talent. He said he'd love to examine me in a more sterile environment. I was like, okay, Worst come on ever. But he gave me his number and I kept it. Don't know why. He just...seemed nice. In a dorky kind of way. I called him.
We met for drinks. Dinner. He came back to my place. We talked for hours. Or he talked and I listened.
About his job.
How he got into insects.
How people only dislike insects because they're so different from us.

People don't like things that are different. Not really.

Eventually we went to bed. I asked if he wanted to watch. He said, "No. I want to touch you. I want to make it happen"
He said a scientist needs to be hands-on in his experiments. It was the first time I'd been touched like that in...ever. The fireflies--or whatever they really are, he still hasn't identified a genus--streamed out. Instead of flying up to the ceiling, they flitted around at eye level. Then came down and landed on us. Crawling all over our bodies, glowing softly.
Listen, he said. Do you hear? They're humming.
I didn't know what he was talking about. Then I heard it. Real faint. All of them together. In unison. A gentle hum. I'd never listened to them before.

They died. Like they always do. I told him not to be sad. Why would I be sad? he asked. Then he curled up next to me and fell asleep in my arms.

We're still together.
I still do parties. I still do private sessions. He doesn't mind at all.
Last night he took a mason jar and, as I came, he caught them. All of them.
He poked holes in the lid, and every few minutes he breathes into the holes.
Hot wet breath.
They're still alive. On the windowsill of our apartment. Still flying. Still glowing in their glass jar.
I don't know what it means. Neither does my entomologist. He says we'll need more data.
So our experiments continue.