The Written Word

She said she used to be a stripper. Told me about her dog.

I can't say I was all the interested. It was her chest I was paying attention to. God damn it she had a nice rack. Someone deserved a big tip, whatever white-coated doctor crankenstein that'd done it for her. He'd done it just right, had doctor crankenstein, and I couldn't fuckin' look away.

I think she was talking about some tv show or something, and I bought her another drink and pretended I understood, and sucked on a beer and thought about sucking on those perfect man-made nipples.

Too fucking smart, this one is, I thought. I understood maybe a third of what she said, and I'm not as stupid as I look.

And then I got tired of listening to her and took over.

“I want to lick your tattoos,” I said, and put my finger on her belly where it peeked out under a too-short-too-tight t-shirt.

“This one, and..” I dug around, figuring there were more in there.

“And this one, and...”

She smiled at me with a seen-it-all-heard-it-all sort of smile, looked at me with thousand year old eyes out of that pretty face, and told me to fuck off. But she touched a tattoo on my arm as she said it and I know what that kind of fuck off means.

That language, that's my language.

“You live near here?” I asked, ready to take her to wherever she lived, or take to to where I lived, which happened to be a fucked-up red van parked in the alley.

She wouldn't tell me, showing again she wasn't stupid - you don't invite a guy looks like me back to your place after meeting him in a bar, not if you have any sort of self-preservation instinct.

That was ok though. We didn't really need a bed.

She got up to pee, telling me that, not any stupid euphemism, no little girl's room, no powdering her nose. No nonsense.

I drank another shot and dropped a crumpled bill on the counter. I wished I had something stronger to make it all go away, and then thought about those tits and decided I was going to have her even if she wasn't completely ok with that.

---

I caught her coming out if the bathroom.

Literally.

I grabbed her from behind, and felt her tense, and had to catch a thrown elbow; knows how to protect herself, I thought, and turned so the force slipped past me.

I grabbed her tight and whispered in her ear, growling what I wanted to fuck, and she went rigid, then melted back into me and I knew it wasn't going to be much of a fight.

Part of me wanted more fight. Part of me wanted to feel those manicured nails dig into my face.

We went out the side, the door that said 'fire alarm', and I could hear it howling as we went down the ally. Fuck 'em, I wasn't going to be back in there, I didn't care, my fifty on the bar would cover it.

“Where are we go...” she started, and I stopped her with a kiss, and crushed the air out of her chest, pulled her so tight against me that I could feel her nipples dig through my leather jacket.

She pretended to push me away, but I'm not fooled easily; the token struggle only made it feel better when she stopped pushing and started to kiss back.

I wasn't the first boy she'd ever kissed, and I guessed she's had a lot more in that mouth than my tongue; she did things to the inside of my mouth I didn't even know were possible, and I started to think about what that could mean, and she could tell what she was doing to me as I pulled her hips in against mine.

She made a small sound into my beard, almost a little laugh, and I told her it wasn't any time to be fucking laughing and that made her laugh more.

I don't think I scared her at all, and that's when I decided maybe this one was more than I'd bargained for.

---

I'd planned to drag her into my van, find a darker place, and keep her there and do things to her until she couldn't take it any more. But somehow when I had the taste of her in my mouth and my hands slipping inside her clothes, any sort of plan went away.

I had one thought and one thought only; I had to be inside her, and I had to be inside her now.

My keys slipped from my fingers and rattled to the ground, bouncing off my steel-toe boot; I could feel myself kicking them under the van as I tried to fumble for them, and the girl was laughing at me drunkenly.

I turned to her and she stopped laughing, and I had my hands on her and pushed her against the side of my van, and kissed her, pushing my mouth against hers, my tongue into her mouth. I bit her lip and pressed my body against hers and my pulled up her skirt.

She was making a noise which might have been no, but I didn't care; she was wet under her panties, I could feel it. She was slick and silky and I pressed a finger against her, pushing her panties against her clit.

I bit into her neck and she was pushing against me, then her arms were around me and she was breathing hard.

I yanked open my belt and the buttons of of jeans, and told her she was going to come for me. “Take off your fucking panties, bitch,” I hissed into her ear, and she did, did as she was told, pushing them down and stepping out of them, looking up at me, almost daring me.

I put my hands on her hips and pressed my cock against her, yanking her skirt up. I spread her legs and hefted her up, pressed her into the side of my van, and felt my cock sliding against the wetness of her.

I looked into her eyes and heard an animal noise escaping my lips as I thrust my hips, pulling her to me, pushing her down as my hips thrust up.

She moaned, and thrashed against me, and I pushed her back against the side of my van and snarled again and drove deeper into her, stabbing, and bit her neck, wanting to leave a mark she'd see later, wanting to show her who I was.

I shrugged out of my jacket, let it fall to the ground, and drove into her; I yanked her bra lose, setting those impossible, perfect breasts free, and mauled them. digging my fingers into them as I drove my cock into her belly; I wanted to make her moan, make her scream.

She had her hands under my shirt, nails digging, raking the small of my back where other marks lay permanently etched in my skin, adding marks of her own on top of the pain written forever into my flesh.

I could feel her, feel her muscles clench, the inside of her moving; and then she was screaming, and I wanted her to scream my name, wanted to scream hers, and then I was coming inside her and she closed her teeth on my shoulder and I wanted to tell her I loved her; wanted to scream it because I always need to say it when I come.

I yelled, screaming obscenities, and thrust again, and she was coming on me, pounding her fists into my chest, and then we were kissing, kissing as the waves subsided.

And I asked her her name, as I softened inside her, and she wouldn't tell me, and put a finger to my lips as I tried to tell her mine. And we kissed, and my cock slipped out of her, and she made a sad, longing sound, wanting it back.

I helped her dress, and she wiped blood from a scratch she'd left on my face. I kept her panties, lied to her that I'd lost them in the shadows.

“Buy you another drink?” I asked her, as I buckled my belt.

She smiled, and said no, and I offered her a ride home.

“No,” she said. Firmly. Not trusting me any more than she should. And I looked at her in the dark alley and wished she'd said yes, and in my head I could hear her inviting me in, making me coffee, telling me her name.

“Just a ride,” I said, and she shook her head, and looked around.

I found my car-keys under the van, and un-locked the passenger door, held it open. “It's stupid to trust me, but...”

She shivered, the night growing colder. Her hair was a mess, her makeup ruined. She looked amazing.

“I live in Chelsea,” she said. “It isn't far.”

I smiled, and held the door.

We listened to the radio, my single speaker cutting in and out. The tape player was broken, I'd had a fight with a Motorhead cassette a couple months back. Maybe I'd get it fixed soon, I thought.

She gave me directions, shivering on the vinyl seat. The heater was broken too. Back where I come from that's not as big a deal

She made me drop her on the corner, wouldn't let me walk her to her door. I got out anyway, ignoring the red no parking curb.

She kissed my cheek, and walked away, her heels clicking on the pavement. She had that walk, like it hurt a little, but in a good way.

I watched her until I couldn't hear her shoes on the pavement, and then waited a little longer, still playing the scene in my head, wondering what her bed looked like, wanting to sit in her kitchen and drink coffee.

I climbed back into my van, and thought about coffee, and impossibly perfect breasts, and wished I'd been able to see her tattoos.

Chelsea Girl I thought. I wish I knew your name.

Please comment if you enjoyed this - for the love of Chelsea Girl.