A slow paradox
She managed to turn out the lights before we both collapsed in a tumbling mess of sweat and tears…
Friday was a mess. I woke too early, and had this built up rush from my company going public in the morning. 10 am came, and not a moment too soon had I poured a shot of vodka to dilute my day.
I still have not adjusted to living alone, it’s a constant dry upheaval of loneliness. Or that’s the excuse I keep writing in the footnotes of my journal for bringing home the so called blonde and redhead wildlife trotting around town.
I had no clean clothes, much to my disappointment, I would be doing laundry inebriated again. The last time I pulled myself into that parade, one of the tenants walked in on me pouring a beer into the wash, muttering angrily under my breath. Let’s not discuss the life lessons we have learned while drunk.
Dragging my clothes back to the apartment, I ran into that cute auburn hair manager again, I just smiled. I cannot bring myself into being close to those near me often as it is. Much is the same reason I never hit on girls while they’re working, I want my business to be as pleasant as possible.
I caught a ride with a coworker to the Underground, half hoping to run into the mystery girl from the other night. I would have invited him along but Jane, the new girl in the office, was too busy rubbing up on his hopelessly married nuts.
It’s fantastic what a simple cigarette trick will get you. Several free drinks later I was on a straight shot course to the bathroom when I spotted one of those emo/punk looking girls with a black leather spiked collar shouting at the bartender, something about not having one of these stupid florescent bracelets they give to those of legal age at the door.
She said nice things, i said nice things, she said dirty things, I drank more, she promised not to swear, I gave her a bad look, she told me she liked to bite, I was sold.
Into the twenty-something step walk to my door from where the taxi dropped us, I decided not to tell her she left her panties on the seat, her legs were squeezed too tight around my hand to care.
I had her up against the door, one hand fumbling to fit the key in the door, the other comfortably numb. We stumbled inside, she managed to turn out the lights before we both collapsed in a tumbling mess of sweat and tears.
This is exactly what I was talking about the other night, these emotional girls have all this built-up energy they need to drain out with sex.
She undid the collar around her neck, it snapped apart into two leather straps, which she promptly tied my arms down with, I felt like Jesus incarnate, arms spread open, vulnerable.
She tells me I’m a pretty bullet, should I tell her that I feel this way?
She started to kiss down my arms, and told me to close my eyes. I had love songs in my head as she climbed on top of me, still in that black miniskirt, soon to be stained with dots of off-colored whites.
I turned my head, and had a peek just in time to feel the sharp scrape of cold metal tear into my arm. I yelled, she screamed, I cried for help, she moaned louder, I called her a crazy bitch, she dug in deeper. This crazy bitch had two razor blades pressed into my arms, crying something to the effect of “do you love me now”.
My saving grace was that in the midst of all this bloody sweat filled confusion, I managed to keep my hardon, she was loving this fucked up ride. I beleive she came, the spot on my couch was wet enough for it, or the whole bloody experience got her off. It doesn’t matter.
She put her shirt back on, fumbled into the bathroom for a minute, gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Goodbye”, she whispered into my ear, I turned away. She left without a sound, save for quiet sobs I held under my breath.
I sat there on the couch, upright with my arms still stuck for a good half hour before muttering with my face down , “that was FUCKED up..”
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