“God, just let my head slow down,” she whimpered. She was still
quivering and breathing heavy. Her breathing eventually slowed.
Hey, you okay?” he asked concerned but with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” she mumbled something.
“What’d you say?”
She slurred a string of nonsense. “Sharper” What? “…
shopping…” Slipping…
“You’re out aren’t you?”
She was.
He giggled, and then realized how inflamed he still was. “Shit.”
He hadn’t been laid in over two years, but still managed to give someone the "best sex she’d ever had," and raise it the requested kink factor, which was higher than he'd expected. Not surprised, just not expected.
Maybe in the
morning… why should that be any different? This is how it always went. Alone and wide-awake,
in a dark, strange place, turgid and purple; physically, mentally and yes,
spiritually.
She had bought him a pack of smokes, that’s where they met, they actually met online, but she picked him up at the 7-Eleven. Bought herself and his broke-ass
packs of cigarettes.
She said later she thought she was picking up a high-schooler the way he had acted. He fished out a cigarette, crawled over her, and walked
naked through the strange apartment. Her hippie roommate and son were away.
They had been messaging back and forth for only two days. He
liked her look; a little vintage, short black hair, red lips. He had heated it
up quick, and she told him to call her.
He did the next day, and got her voicemail. Her pre-recorded message gave her full name. She had a name from a crime noir novel and a gun moll’s tone and accent from the Boston area.
He did the next day, and got her voicemail. Her pre-recorded message gave her full name. She had a name from a crime noir novel and a gun moll’s tone and accent from the Boston area.
They later messaged quickly again, and it was at a feverish pitch. She
said, “I’m getting in the shower and dressing up for you, I’ll call you to come
on over.” He had told her that he liked old pin-up type fashions, totally in a straight-guy way, though.
She called back around 10 o’clock, and told him to come over— she
was fortuitously a 15 minute bus ride away, at most— and to pick her up a pack of
cigarettes.
He told her he was totally broke, but would get the cash and run for them. She said she would just pick him up at the 7-Eleven.
He told her he was totally broke, but would get the cash and run for them. She said she would just pick him up at the 7-Eleven.
He got there, and there was this group of four teen-age boys out front to the left of the doors, so he picked the right side, and stationed himself.
Three young girls, skin still
browning in the night of early summer, came out and walked in front of him. He
looked them up and down, he rarely did that.
The gun moll was closer to his age, and a little big, he
knew; he was comparing. The teen-age boys tried to whistle, and cat-call at them, but the girls weren’t
impressed.
Seconds later he saw her, walking from the left-side of the store, in a tight
red dress, fishnets, and some high pumps; like it was totally practiced. “Hello
boys,” she said to the teenagers, totally practiced.
“Hey, you look great.” He held the door for her.
“So do you,” she said.
“So, how ya don’?” she asked.
“I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“Aw.” They kissed a good bit. “Wow,” she said. And they
drove away.
On the couch, he lit his cigarrette, and got nervous. Then the thought hit hard. The pills. Earlier, at his house he had a big chicken dinner, rare but that’s what he got from the food
pantry that week.
During the evening's activities, he had to use the bathroom, and turned on the faucet to silence the immense farting that commenced. They came at a lengthy duration and standing at the basin, with his hand on the faucet, his frazzled eyes were drawn to the pill bottles above the sink.
During the evening's activities, he had to use the bathroom, and turned on the faucet to silence the immense farting that commenced. They came at a lengthy duration and standing at the basin, with his hand on the faucet, his frazzled eyes were drawn to the pill bottles above the sink.
“Oh, Jesus.” The first one’s contents jumped off the label,
like in an 82pt. Boston Herald headline
font: Xanax. Ritalin was in the other two, her son’s and hers.
Now, he sat on the couch wondering what to do. He would just
smoke his cigarette, of course.
He wasn’t pissed or resentful about not getting satisfied himself, by the sex. She had begged him in all sorts of dirty ways, but he demurred; he was still too shy with her, which was pretty coy because he was a total switch. The night was pretty rough.
He wasn’t pissed or resentful about not getting satisfied himself, by the sex. She had begged him in all sorts of dirty ways, but he demurred; he was still too shy with her, which was pretty coy because he was a total switch. The night was pretty rough.
He realized he didn't have a "disease of more", as was oft quoted. He had a Disease of Want.
He had messaged her that he was
more interested in watching her react to his touches, watch her rise and fall,
and “slip…” He had left that open-ended deliberately, implying slipping into
orgasm and sleep. He saw the former more times than were counted, and the latter, as well. Shouldn’t
he then, be satisfied as well? Expectations fulfilled?
Rather than cop her drugs, he got up off the couch, and
before crawling into bed with her, he did steal one of her cigarettes, totally forgetting
about the baby food jar full of marijuana right next to them. He smelled it earlier, he wasn't interested. He could get better, if he wanted. She hadn't smoked.
He put the little dish
they used as an ashtray across her big ass; she had never moved from where he had
released her. He enjoyed the novelty of the quick-burning menthol, and of hearing someone slumber deeply again. He touched
her forehead, still moist and fevered; hooked her hair behind her ear.
He
smiled, self-satisfied, and respectfully picked up the dish before putting the butt out, placed
it on the nightstand, hunkered up close and put his arm around a pretty much perfect stranger for
the first time in distant memory. And slipped himself…
