The Written Wordtag:www.moronosphere.com,2008:/writing/142006-12-31T22:27:07ZKarl Elvis MacRae's Non-blog writingMovable Type 3.34lying on a beachtag:www.moronosphere.com,2006:/writing//14.50022006-11-18T18:36:31Z2006-12-31T22:27:07ZAnd then her shorts were buttoned over her tanned belly, and she turned and waked away; and I wanted to follow her, and... And what? Thank her? Ask her out? Tell her what I was now imagining, where I wanted to put my mouth? Tell her how much I wanted to taste her now while she was still sea-salty and beach-sandy?
Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
The Moronosphere)
I was lying on the beach - or as much beach as you get on Hawaii's Big Island, which is more a giant hunk of lava than an island, and thus more generally rocky than sandy. I was in shady spot under a small palm tree, dozing after a picnic lunch and an hour of snorkeling just above Pu`uhonua o Honaunau.
As i drifted out of sleep, i noticed a woman sitting on the lava-rock wall near me
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it's ok, Lady, I don't mind at all, in a casually good-natured way. She made some reply about living on the far side of the island, and that there, she was naked most of the time, and so didn't care.
I decided i liked her. She reminded me of a woman i used to know, Karen; a woman I'd long had a crush on, though with whom I'd never gone beyond kissing and some drunken, naked groping in the hot tub. Like Karen, this stranger wasn't particularly pretty, but had an earthy, hippy-woman beauty. The kind of woman who is at ease with her body, wears what fits and is comfortable, and who is far, far sexier than she'd ever imagine herself to be.
I was on my back, arms stretched back behind my head, my old, sun-and-salt stained boonie hat tilted forward to shade my eyes. I carefully maintained the look of someone sleeping, my eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. And I watched her, and thought about what she would look like the rest of the way naked, should one see more than tanned back and the side of one accidently exposed breast.
She finished her phone call, and then stood up and looked around; she looked at me, and, i assume, figured me to be asleep. I'm an inveterate girl-watcher, and though i tend to practice the notion that when I'm looking at a pretty girl, she should know she's being looked at (i.e. i nod and smile when caught looking), i'm also pretty good at the corner-of-the-eye method, looking while seeming not to.
She stood, turned side-on to me, and picked up a t-shirt (an over-sized red tank, roughly cut to bare the midriff), and dropped her pāreu.
Her breast, the one I could see, was lovely; almost as tan as the rest of her. I imagine they were fine and high when she was twenty, because now, at fifty, they retained a beautiful shape, yet with a natural sag that is so much prettier than most surgically enhanced breasts.
Her nipples were like little cocoa-covered truffles; chocolate brown, big as gumdrops. My mouth watered as I lay on the coarse sand, and i asked her, silently, to turn more and give me a front view.
She didn't; she pulled on her shirt, and then turned the rest of the way toward me (or rather, toward the ocean, since she had already dismissed my existence). She took up the pāreu, pulled it loosely 'round her hips, and tied it in front; this covered her bikini bottoms from the rear, but in front, only a slip of fabric covered her.
She picked up a pair of surfer-style board shorts, old and worn and faded like her pāreu, and then casually pushed down her bikini-bottoms, stepping quickly and efficiently out of them and into her shorts, then straightening, pulling them up just slowly enough to let me see her shaved-bare pussy, just glimpse enough to fill my mind with an image that will stay a while.
And then her shorts were buttoned over her tanned belly, and she turned and waked away; and I wanted to follow her, and... And what? Thank her? Ask her out? Tell her what I was now imagining, where I wanted to put my mouth? Tell her how much I wanted to taste her now while she was still sea-salty and beach-sandy?
Maybe I should have. Maybe this would have made her day, knowing she made mine; maybe she would have gone home and slipped a finger between those smooth lips the way I wanted to, and thought about the sunburned, tattooed tourist who said sweet or dirty things to her on the road between sea and parking lot. Or maybe she just would have driven home smiling.
I didn't though; I didn't get up; though I did roll over, to hide the reaction my own body had to her. And I thought those thoughts and half wished I'd gotten up; and half was glad I hadn't.]]>
Chelseatag:www.moronosphere.com,2006:/writing//14.38202006-03-18T06:34:21Z2006-03-20T22:41:52ZFor ChelseaGirl, on her BlogDay. Hugs and Kisses, sweet Chelsea Girl....Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
ChelseaGirl, on her BlogDay.
Hugs and Kisses, sweet Chelsea Girl.]]>
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. ]]>
Long Dark Cartag:www.moronosphere.com,2005:/writing//14.25662005-10-02T21:07:45Z2005-10-09T23:20:35Z This is a slight expansion upon one of the best sex dreams I've ever had. This was a long time ago, and certainly, some of the dream detail is lost, and thus replaced with the writer's waking imagination. Still,...Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
This is a slight expansion upon one of the best sex dreams I've ever had. This was a long time ago, and certainly, some of the dream detail is lost, and thus replaced with the writer's waking imagination. Still, the basic details are direct from the dream. In the dream the ending was, as all my sex dreams, a too-soon waking; so the ending here is of the writer's-waking-imagination kind. But somehow the sudden ending didn't satisfy.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Out of the same back door
Across the same back yard again
Over the same low wall
Into the same long car and then
Black wheels on a silver car
Big wheels go round
--Shriekback
Riding a long dark car through neon city streets.
We pass a bottle and listen - music grinds, engine rumbles, tires whine and thump on rain-darkened pavement.
She and I sit in the back; too many people in a too-large car, but it's like we're alone. She passes me a bottle and somehow I can taste her lips on it when I suck back cheap, fiery booze. Her name is Kelly.
She's all that I'm not; blond, and small, and elegant. Soft, and gentle. Young and smelling of candy and flowers.
Her bare arm rests against my leather sleeve, her slender hip presses into mine, silk against frayed denim. Her pale blue eyes look up into my soul-dark glasses. I pass her back the bottle, my big, rough hands touching hers, tiny, pale, with elaborately manicured nails. Our hands touch long after the bottle is passed.
Someone shouts that we need more to drink; one of the innebriated ladies adds that she's got to pee. The car slows and turns to pull into a gas station parking lot and we pile out of the big car.
I put a hand on her shoulder and turn her to face me. The wind throws mist into my face.
Half our party are crossing the street, drawn by beer signs and the neon word liquor. The others make for the gas station.
I put my hand on her face. My thumb brushes her lips. I can feel breath in her throat. I pull her against me, though she makes some small attempt to push me away.
I know this girl - know her face, though we've only just met.
She looks at me with a trace of fear, and something more, and I know I need to kiss her, no matter what.
She turns her face away from my kiss, and mumbles something, gestures with her head in the direction of the bathrooms.
“I have to...”
I let her go. She steps back, turns, her face still toward me over her shoulder, turning away in slow motion. She walks away.
I wait. Two steps. Three. Her heels clacking on the wet, oily pavement. She slips a little, regains balance.
Four steps. Five. Six. And then I move, my boots finding better purchase on the slick concrete. I am behind her as she reaches the restroom doors.
They're both locked, one with lights showing through a transom, girl-giggles audible from inside. The other dark. She turns, and finds me touching-close, and then I have her pressed back to the locked door, my body pressed to her, my breath shared with hers. I hold her there with my body and whisper her name, the name I know her by, not her real name. She anwers with her lips, though not her voice, and we kiss.
The other door opens, drunken, giggling girls passing us in the dark, cat-calls and clattering sandals.
I let her go, and she slithers away from me, grabs for the bathroom door, steps through. But I have a hand on it before she can close it, and am in behind her.
I slam the door shut, lock it. I turn my back and let her do what she needs to do, and then turn toward her.
The light flickers; old florescent tubes, in need of replacement. An irregular strobe. She moves toward me in hypnotic slow motion, stands before me.
I take her in my arms, and pull her too me; she shakes her head, no, no, no, but her mouth opens. No words come out, so I give her my words instead, Yes. And then my mouth is on hers, and I taste booze, and some silly cinnamon breath mint, and then as my teeth close on her lip, a trace of blood.
She tries, once, to pull away, then her hands are inside my shirt, nails digging into my back. She is sucking at my mouth as hard as I'm sucking at hers. Her nipples, hard though her silky dress, dig into my chest.
I walk her back, two, three steps, until she's backed up against the sink, and my weight crushes into her. The zipper in my jacket leaves marks on her bare shoulder.
I pick her up - she's a light as a child. I lift her onto the sink. She gasps, and then my hand is under her skirt.
Her panties are drenched, and I slip my fingers into the crotch. My knuckles brush the wetness of her pussy, but I wrap the crotch of her panties in my fist and wrench.
She screams, softly, her cry muffled against the leather on my shoulder; I can feel fabric tear, and then give, and then her panties are a filmy wreck in my hand.
I kiss her, and she's almost sobbing, yet still her mouth draws at mine, sucking my tongue into her mouth. I can hear her nails raking across the leather on my arms, adding new scrapes and gouges to the old.
I drop the bit of tattered lace and force her thighs apart, and my fingers find the soft hair between her legs, as fine and pale as that on her head, and dripping wet. I grab her pussy, press my palm against it, and she grasps, and then moans, and then I find entry, switch to a single finger, and push.
She's a tight as a virgin, and I push, and she throws back her head and screams, and I don't slow down. I can hear a noise, like an animal, and realize it's my own voice; my teeth dig into her throat and I can feel her scream as I fuck another finger into her.
She screams my name into my shoulder, and I need to fuck her; I slide my fingers out of her and grab for my belt, tearing at it in frustration and need.
I free myself from my belt, wrench open my jeans; I can feel them slide to my knees as I put my hands on her hips and press the head of my cock against her.
She presses hersself to me, her arms around my neck; her legs wrap my waist. The head of my cock pushes into her. She's incredibly tight, small, and oh so slick, and I know I'm going to hurt her when I shove in.
I kiss her, and force deep inside her, and swallow her screams. I feel her teeth tear at my lip, and we're kissing my blood from mouth to mouth as I feel thrust into her, almost splitting her open. she screams my name, and I scream hers, and then it's all pounding, stabbing biting and clawing, moans and screams and gasps and raw animal need.
I hear pounding outside; calls and panic. I don't care, don't stop, don't even slow.
“Come for me,” I growl into her ear. “Come for me, now.” And she does, her scream building, head back, her whole body thrashing against me. I can feel it, feel her inside, feel it with my hand on her stomach, every muscle in her clenching and spasming. I can feel her drenching me, her her juices dripping down my legs.
And then I'm coming, filling her as she comes again, telling her I can feel her coming, as she screams and then begins to sob.
* * *
We put our clothing in order. I can smell her on me as I button my jeans.
Friends gathered at the door look at us with confusion and fear when we emerge; her lips are swolen, though I've cleaned away the blood stains.
She tells them she's fine, really.
I help her into the car, where she slides into the far corner, huddled against the door.
The engine rumbles to life. Music plays. A bottle passes.
Tires whine on wet paving; the rain decides to get serious, and competes with the music.
I put my arm around her, pull her close. She resists, then melts into me, her head to my shoulder. I kiss the top of hear head, inhaling the scent of her; girl-smells of shampoo and perfume now competing with the musk of sex; no longer smelling of candy, but now of sweat and come and blood.
She whimpers softly into my shoulder, and shivers, and I enfold her in my jacket. We share a drink, scotch this time, body-warm from a flask in my pocket
Music grinds, rain beats against the window. Kelly's hand is in mine. Her soft whimpers mix with the the sound of the car and the night.
For what it's worth, the girl in the dream that inspired this was an actress, called here by her character's name. If you happened to watch certain zip-code-titled teen shows from the early 1990s you may be able to pick out the actress/character in question. At the time, she was right at the top of my celeb wanna-fuck list, so having her, like this, in a dream, was an incredible bonus. Today, I can't say I'd dream of her or even think of her, other than the dream-visit she payed me. But that, I shall never forget.
]]>
The Partytag:www.moronosphere.com,2006:/writing//14.35492005-05-28T18:52:30Z2006-02-01T05:20:50ZThe Party. A short one, originally published on ErosBlog under a different author name....Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
The Party.
A short one, originally published on ErosBlog under a different author name.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
We meet at a party.
We're not supposed to know each other, but we do. Know each other's words, minds, souls. Yet we've never met.
Drink in my hand, I pretend to ignore her as I chat up some lovely ladies who are intent upon being mine for the evening. She's nervous, never at ease in crowds. I know her eyes are on me, but I do not turn to look. Music plays. I fetch drinks for my erstwhile dates. Lush women, to my taste, normally, but there's only one woman in the room tonight.
I circulate away from her, but I know where she is. I wait.
I catch her when she goes down the hall to use the bathroom; timing it, I am there behind her just as the door opens, and then in a rush I have her in my arms, the door shutting behind us. I turn out the light, and we're lit only softly, moonlight through a high window.
First kiss. She knows it's me. Knows my touch before ever a hand is laid on her. I take her mouth, roughly. We speak no words. It's not time for talk, that's yesterday. That's tomorrow.
I guide her down; she's told me this story, written a script, and for now, that's how I play it. She's on her knees, and her hands free my cock, and her mouth takes me. I hold her head, fuck into her mouth. I gag her, make her choke. Later, I'll touch her gently, but now, we need it to hurt.
She wants my come. She won't get it yet. I stop her, and she squeals in frustration. I put my cock away, and make her stand.
“Fix your makeup,” I say, and tell her to do whatever else she's in here for. She does, and I watch her, the lights back on. Her face is flushed, red. Her lipstick is smeared, her lips invitingly puffy. I almost take her again, from behind this time. But not yet; I open the door, distract two people in line while she slips out behind me.
I catch her by the elbow and steer her toward the stairs. There's a guest room. The door has a lock. I sweep coats and purses off the bed, lock the door behind us. She protests - someone might come looking. I don't care. I push her down on the bed, rip a filmy thong from her and put it in my pocket as she gasps.
I put a finger in her; she's incredibly wet, and incredibly tight. It's going to hurt her when I take her, And I'm looking forward to that. I hold her down, and kiss her, and rub my cock against her slick wetness. Then I'm forcing myself inside, holding her face with one hand, making her look at me so I can see her pain.
God, she's tight. I can feel her body fighting to keep me out. I fight harder, then kiss her to contain the scream. I thrust in, each stroke deeper, making her fit me, making her yield to me. She screams into my mouth, and kisses, and screams.
I want to take time. I want to make her come. But it's too much. I give in to her, abandon restraint, and stab her with my cock. My scream meets hers and I come, and keep thrusting, my fingers on her clit, my cock only half hard but still inside.
“Come for me, you little whore,” I whisper, and she's howling, screaming, her pussy clenching on me. Anyone outside would think murder is being done, and I fantasize the whole house knows how I've just taken her. Her screams turn to sobs, and her body shakes, and she begins to whisper that she loves me.
We've only started. She thinks I'm going to let her go. I'm not.]]>
The Man with the Bagtag:www.moronosphere.com,2005:/writing//14.26042004-10-25T20:13:08Z2006-10-07T19:09:14ZEverybody's waitin' for the man with the bag, 'Cause Christmas is comin' again....Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
Everybody's waitin' for the man with the bag, 'Cause Christmas is comin' again. ]]>
Author's Note: This story may not be duplicated or re-posted on another website or in any medium without the written consent of the author.
* * *
I was making my rounds. Like I do every year.
The little guys who work for me had slipped me a lotta packets, so it had been a long haul. I was beat.
A few more stops ahead, was what I was thinking, and then I'm home free. After that, I could knock off and get back to my drinking.
I don't like to work much. It's why I'm in this line of work. Be my own boss. Hard work interferes with a man's simple pleasures. And I'm a man who likes his pleasures. But the work day, it gets me away from the old lady, and when you're home most days, that's a vacation right there.
I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and dragged my hat back on. Yeah, cold this time of year, but when you get moving this fast, the friction makes a lotta heat. Its -- well, it's complicated, and I'm not a physics guy. And that ain't the story I'm here to tell.
We came to a grinding halt on the top on an apartment building. Nice place. Nice building, nice part of town. But they all look the same after a while, when you've seen them all. And I've seen every goddamned one of them.
"Ok kids," I said to the team. "Almost done, stay put and the big guy'll be right back." I used to have a different ride, while back, but it threw a lotta shoes.
I hefted the sack. Damned thing gets heavier every year, seems like.
I took the stairs. I prefer that. No goddamned chimneys. That was the Missus' idea, but it never really worked for me.
I used to start at the top and work down, thinking it would be lighter work going up; but -- well, the sack...Oh, nevermind. Physics, dig? So I like to start at the ground and work up. Better stuff for last, and the people who need it more get it first. Little games a man plays at work to keep himself from going bugfuck.
Building like any building. People sleeping. Food smell, booze, ever-greens and mulling spice. Happiness, sadness, loneliness. Greed and generosity. Depression. Lust. The smells of the season. This is my work place.
The top floor was an easy one. Just a couple cribs occupied. The high-rent level.
I slipped the locks -- its' a little trick I have. Used to do it the hard way, but a man learns a few things when he's been on the job this long.
Nice digs. Tasteful. Fire burning -- gas, one of those fake deals. Fake tree in the corner. Not a lot real in here, I was guessing.
The list said it was a mister and missus. I had a couple things to drop off. Little packets. Not a lot, and all with the mister's name on 'em, which was a little strange.
Didn't smell a lotta joy in the room. No roast turkey, no pie. No evergreen. But there was something else in the air. Oh, yeah, a man gets to know that smell.
"You're late, big guy. I was starting to think you weren't coming."
The perfume was musky. A spicy sort of smell. Kinda smell puts young thoughts in an old man's head.
"You're up late, ma'am."
"Mmm, well, I had to wait up."
I chuckled to myself. Running the lines through my head, wondering which one she'd try.
"And I'm a little...lonely," she said it in a breathy way. Sounded like she practiced it. "He - my - uh..." She looked around, as if she were searching for the right word. Put one finger to her lips, trying to look thoughtful.
"My -- husband is away on business. And I was thinking, what we usually leave out, that's not good enough, not with my Christmas list."
"Oh, you wanted something special this year, did you?" I asked. Like I don't already know, lady.
It's my business to know things.
"Let's not talk about what I want yet, hmmm?" She had a nice voice, I decided, even if it was stagey. "Let's talk about what you want for a change," she said.
I just wanted to punch out and go home. It was late.
I went about my work. Made my drop. Couple things by the tree, couple things on the mantle.
She was in shadow, but my eyes are good in the dark. There were some candles in the room, the fire, the colored lights on the tree. I was liking what I was seeing. A lush little thing. Maybe a five footer, maybe a bit more, but the fur trim at the neck of her robe showed a too-perfect cleavage. Fake -- ah, yes, I thought, I know what she got a couple holidays back, but not my doing. A good look on her anyway. Some nice gams and some red, fur-trimmed mules that didn't look like they were much made for walking. She was reclining on a chaise deal that looked like it came from Bordellos-R-Us.
I turned her way, ready to bid her the usual holiday wishes, but she stood up and tottered on those shoes.
Yeah, I was liking what I saw. Skinny little waist, nice hips. But it was the red velvet robe that really got me. White trim. Not ermine, but a good fake. And a little hat to match on her blond curls, cocked just so. Nice touch, I thought.
"So, can we talk about what you want?" she asked me, and took a couple steps toward me.
"Well, I could really use a drink."
She pursed those sweet little lips of hers, red as her velvet, and cocked her head to one side. "Oh, I don't imagine you're talking about milk, hmm?"
I laughed my deep belly-laugh, more because I knew it's what she'd expect than because it was funny. I jerked a thumb at the liquor cabinet. She was working the whole thing pretty hard.
I try not to drink on the job. I need to keep careful track, and it's a long list I have to work with. But -- well, I told myself it was so I could look at her walking away. And you know, when I saw her walk away, it was a good choice.
When she bent a little to get a glass from a lower shelf, it became clear there wasn't much under that robe. I wanted her to bend like that again. She poured three fingers of something amber and brought it to me with her best all-hips walk. She held the drink in both hands.
She touched my hands as she handed it to me. Her soft milky fingers, slender and delicate, against my thick, ruddy digits. I liked the contrast. I liked the feeling. Sure, she was doing it on purpose, but it was working anyway.
It was cheap scotch. But I know one thing, and that's to how to accept a gift graciously. I tossed it back and put the tumbler on a side table, wiping my beard with the fur trim on my coat sleeve.
"So, m'am," I said, my voice roughened by the cheap booze, "I've got a nights' work to finish and my clock's running." I said it, but didn't make a move to leave.
She looked up at me, blue eyes twinkling. She reached up and stroked my beard. Oh, I love when they do that.
Man gets lonely living where I live. North, far, far north. It gets cold. Sometimes a man gets to thinking, I'm out of town on business, I'm here, what's the harm?
Oh, sure, I'm married. But the wife need not know.
I don't think I'd quite decided, but she started on my belt. I could have stopped her. I even thought about stopping her. But -- well, that perfume was nice.
She was good with the knot. I wondered about that. But those hands felt even better against my belly than they did on my hand. She stepped close.
"So, what do you want for Christmas?" she whispered.
I didn't feel like talking about it.
I stared at her for a moment, thought about what she was offering, and what she would be wanting. What they're always wanting. More, is what they always want.
But I decided I'd prefer to take what she offered, rather than let her give it. Give myself a little present, for a change.
I grabbed her head in one of my big hands and pulled her face to mine, kissing her hard. She wasn't expecting it; they don't. That whole jolly thing. Think they know me because of a few songs and some cartoon.
Her mouth closed, then started to open, but too slow. I dug my teeth into her lip, hard, and then pushed my tongue into her mouth when she tried to protest.
I kissed her like that -- hard, rough, forcing myself against her. I let her have a taste of me for a good long while. She struggled a little, just enough to make it interesting, but she wasn't serious about it. Not yet.
I let her go. Pushed her away. She stumbled, fell. Her ankle twisting in those ridiculous shoes.
"You hurt me!" she said.
"Not really, not yet I didn't," I said.
I figured I'd let her go then, leave her remembering what a real Christmas kiss was like. But I looked down at her, helpless, biting her own lower lip, that bum ankle in those shoes. And I looked at the red and white robe. And then there was a tear running down her cheek.
It was too much for me. I felt a stirring. My body reacting. And I when that happens, it's really not about what I should do, or what I intend to do. It's down to the basics. Wanting. Taking. It's not about the giving any more. Sometimes the holiday is about getting what you want. About giving myself what I really want.
I picked her up like she was a doll - compared to the bags I lug, she weighed nothing.
She gasped. "Oh my god, you're strong" she whispered.
"I may look like a fat man, baby, but it's all hard underneath" I said, and tossed her down onto that silly chaise.
She gasped - and then again, when I tore the belt from her robe.
I dropped to my knees beside the chaise and spread the robe open - she tried to stop me, but her pushing was kitten-weak. Pale, creamy skin, flushed now with embarrassment. This wasn't how she expected to play this.
Her tits were fake. It's not possible to fool me. But damn, well done. And they felt almost real when I took one in each hand and squeezed.
She gasped, then moaned, then she screamed when I pinched and twisted her nipples. They were kinda like fat gum drops in my fingers.
I went for her mouth again, pressing her body down with my own weight. She didn't fight at first. She'd been drinking, champagne, and then the cheap scotch. She tasted of greed and anger, loneliness and a tang of despair. That's a talent I've developed over the ages, I can read a kiss through and through. Hers was savory, and vaguely pleasant. She kissed like a woman who'd spent a lot of time kissing. She kissed like a woman who did things for gain as much as pleasure.
I forced my tongue deep into her mouth, then sucked hers into mine. I chewed at her lips. I could feel her nails digging into my sides. The nails were as fake as the tits, but still felt good as she tried to rake my skin.
I kissed her like that 'til she was near suffocation. I stole breath from her and didn't let her have more. I could feel fear in her body before I let go her mouth.
"Oh god," she was gasping. "Oh - oh!" I could smell the fear on her, under that spicy perfume. "Oh my god."
I put my hand to her breast again, then replaced it with my mouth. I sucked, then bit, and she screamed. That would leave a mark.
I stood. She could have tried. She could have jumped up, kicked off those shoes. Run, even with that bum ankle. But where could she have gone? She'd have found her phone didn't work. And who'd have listened, if she'd been able to make call? Who'd believe her story?
But I think she knew. I think she knew what was going to happen. Maybe she still thought this was her game, or maybe this was really what she wanted. But she stayed, transfixed, watching.
I shrugged out of my coat, but left my boots and trousers. I stretched, then un-did a button.
She gasped when she saw my cock. They usually do. One of the bigger gifts I have to give.
"Sit up." I said. She obeyed me.
She also obeyed when I told her to open her mouth.
She gagged on my first thrust. "You can do better than that," I spat at her, and thrust again.
She did do better. Much better. Maybe she thought this was the present she was going to give me. But she sucked like a pro, wet lips, tongue frantic, teeth held skillfully away. Even so, her molars dug. I like that feeling though.
I thought about letting her have it like this, but maybe later.
She licked my balls. She tried to get them in her mouth, and did a good job. She traced up and down my shaft, slurped and gulped. She tried to deep throat me, but that's not easily done.
"Enough!" I shouted, finally, finished with her mouth. I pushed her away, back onto the chaise.
Candy-cane striped panties. Excellent touch. Red and white. They tore with a quick jerk, and she started to scream; I stuffed them into her mouth and told her to shut up.
She was wet. Incredibly wet. I pinched her clit, and she tried to scream, and I laughed. She gasped when I slid one thick finger into her, then tried to scream again when I added a second one.
"Don't you even think of spitting those panties out," I said.
I pried her legs apart. She knew, now, and the fear in her eyes was real. She was shaking her head, gasping, mumbling "No's" around those candy-striped panties.
I climbed onto her chaise, the cheap furniture creaking with my weight. I leaned over her.
My cock slid up and down, playing with her, but also lubricating myself. I wasn't going in easy. I pressed it to her clit and looked into her eyes. She shook her head. "No, no," she mumbled around those panties.
She screamed when the head thrust in. Fear scream! Pain scream! Loud even with the gag. "Oh, it's going to get better," I said.
Her nails raked my belly. I laughed, harder and louder, my head thrown back. I began to thrust, short, shallow stabbing motions, loosening her, making her fit me. She screamed louder and tried to spit the panties out, so I cut off the breath in that tiny throat with my fingers.
"Shhh," I said.
Then I let her have it all. All the way in, deep, hard, feeling her clench. Her body trying to push me out, to keep me out, to protect itself.
She was oh-so-wet around me. Her body betraying her. I added my fingers to the mix to make sure she knew it, my thumb on her clit.
She was sobbing now, moaning with each thrust. Her fists beat against my belly, then one hand grabbing at my beard. But her moans were deep in her throat now, and I could feel it, knew she was going to come before she did. I let her cough out those panties, wanting her hear her scream.
Her first orgasm started with convulsions, contractions, deep inside. The screaming became a teeth-gritted moan, low then rising in volume and pitch, an animal noise, like I was tearing something out of her. No, she was screaming, denying it, denying the reality, the un-wanted, involuntary response.
Her body betrayed her, as if she had any control.
I let her breathing slow a little, let her think I might be done. Then I started again, more weight on her, digging in deeper, harder, faster. Hurting her.
The next orgasm was easier on her, after she'd given up resisting. She came screaming, moaning, then crying.
And then I got my fingers on back her clit and ordered her to come again. And again. Until she was begging, in pain and biting my shoulder.
"I can't! I cant! I can't! I can't! I - Ahhh..." as I wrenched another from her; tears were streaming down her face.
When I pulled out, she thought I was through with her. Until I rolled her over.
"You want something that isn't on the list, my dear?" I asked her. "This isn't on my list."
Still slick with her, I pushed my cock into that other, tender hole. I wasn't the first there, I was sure, but I was the biggest. Good thing the chaise was a deep burgundy, or we'd leave stains she'd never be able to deny.
She'd thought it hurt when I made her come. But this was a new scream. This was a scream that tore out of her as I tore in.
I might have taken time with her. Made her beg. Made her promise. But now, late, almost done with my work, I wanted to be done with her as well.
I pushed in, forced in, knowing it hurt her and liking it. Knowing she'd hate me as I came, knowing she'd be ruined for anyone else after. I fucked her hard, deep, and long.
I came inside her, fucking and coming like a piston, filling her, thrust after thrust. She was sobbing into the cushions, shuddering as she felt hot come fill her.
I pulled out, threw her to the floor, and came on her, her tits, her face, her hair.
Then I tucked myself back into my trousers and picked up my coat and hat.
"Here," I said, and tossed her robe to her.
I collected my bag.
She was sobbing. Pain or release or fear, I wasn't sure.
"Merry Christmas" I said.
"Wa -- Wait!" she said.
I turned. Said nothing.
"You got what you wanted, now what about..."
"You?" I asked. She nodded.
"What about what you want?"
She nodded again, wiped tears and come from her cheek with the back of her hand.
"You have to be a lot better next year, baby, if you want to make my list."
She stared at me.
"A lot better. Because -- well, I know," I said.
There's no fooling me. Like I said.
"Oh god."
"Look on the bright side - at least you got something for Christmas no one else has."
I poured her a scotch and handed it to her.
"Merry Christmas, and I'll see you next year."
I closed the door without looking back. Dames. They always think they can get a leg up 'cause they look so good and smell so sweet.
Up on the roof I pulled my flask out of my boot and took a drink. The good stuff, not the cheap scotch she had. Silver flask the little guys had made for me one year. Engraved, but the last three letters are mixed, "t-a-n" where it should be "n-t-a". The little pointy-eared bastards think that joke is pretty goddamned funny.
I agree with them, I must admit. Maybe not quite as funny as they think, though.
I whipped up the team and took off. Couple more stops and then home.
I could see her penthouse apartment lights still on. Her silhouette.
"Ho, Ho, fucking Ho," I said.
]]>
Giant Rattag:www.moronosphere.com,2004:/writing//14.26062004-02-22T22:22:15Z2006-01-16T05:31:53ZThis really happened, but telling it is inspiried by old Hunter S Thompson...Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
This really happened, but telling it is inspiried by old Hunter S
Thompson
The acid was just starting to kick in and the tequila was wearing off.
We were tearing down the highway. The band was gonna play, time to go.
“God, this stuff is working” my friend said. “I'm so glad I'm not driving,
I'm so fucking high”.
“Me too,” I said, my hands gripping the wheel of the big boat of an impala
as it slowly turned into a python. “I'm glad I'm not driving, too.” I
stepped harder on the gas.
She started to scream. I giggled.
It was dark and bad in the club. It used to be a place where the waiters
wear robes like monks and you drink cheap dark beer and eat beef. And
I always imagined the monk-waiters buggering the bus-boys in the barred
wine cellar in between rounds.
Now it's not that. It's a bar where bands from downtown play and hardly
anyone goes and all the neighbors hate it when the bands are loud.
There were things living in the dark corners of the beamed ceiling. They
hid when I looked but I knew they were there and they were looking at
me.
I drank bud. I hate bud. I wanted to drink sierra nevada or a long
island ice tea or a vodka collins or maybe just tequila. Even water.
But all I could say was 'bud' so I said it and kept saying it and
it was better than having my hands empty.
The band were ready to start, and the dance-floor was empty and then
they were in the middle of it, building a bonfire of napkins and
lighting it and sitting in a tribal circle. And they were chanting and
it sounded like “Rat, rat, giant rat, give me some rat blood to mix
with my blood” and they bonfire on the wood dance floor was getting
bigger, and they were chanting louder, “RAT! RAT!” and then the
napkins were lifting off like smoldering souls flying up to hell.
And then they were picking up instruments and the music was starting.
Which chased the things away from the shadows and I had another bud.
“I'm glad I'm not driving, too,” I thought.]]>
Wanton Chapter 1tag:www.moronosphere.com,2005:/writing//14.21342003-11-29T20:35:30Z2006-12-31T23:11:02ZI'd found the shop, stood in the lobby looking at an impressive collection of flash, but when I'd finally worked up my courage to ask for her (feeling a little sheepish asking for the odd name), the boy at the counter had mumbled around several tongue and lip piercings that she worked other days, and then grudgingly wrote down her schedule for me.... My fingers rammed into her cunt, two, three, trying to shove my whole hand in. She thrust her legs against the wall, almost knocking me over, pushing me into the open door of the elevator.Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
A novella of sexual obsession.
Chapter One - Tattooed Boy meets Tattooed Girl. An indelible romance.
It began with a chance meeting. My local tattoo shop. Me under the needle. A girl. Morphine's 'Cure for Pain' playing, loud and low and ominous.
Her black t-shirt said 'Yes It Hurts'; Her arms were tattooed to the wrist. She was with a couple of other women, older, dressed in leathers like bikers. I watched her as she browsed the shop, looked at tattoo flash, talked to the owner.
She knew I was watching her, I could tell.
Eventually, she came over. Stood behind me and admired the work on my back; complimented the artist. She told me I had some decent work. "Decent" was the word she used, and stressed "some". She talked like another tattooist.
I go off somewhere when I'm getting tattooed. Tattooing is a combination of pain and discomfort; when you're first tattooed, this is exciting. After a while, it's not. So I try to go away, mentally, to escape the boredom and pain. She stopped me though, pulled me back, made me painfully aware of myself, my body, my pain.
I can't recall what I said to her; I think it was strange. I know I tried to flirt with her. She told me not to try 'that shit' on her, and laughed. She said it like she sort of wanted me to keep trying.
I wanted to talk to her. But I was fading in and out, and she was gone, and it was too late. I hadn't gotten her name.
Johnny, my tattooist, didn't know her. He thought she seemed like a 'pretentious bitch', said something rude about 'her dyke friends' as he shrugged his big shoulders. Still, from then, she was in my head. She's there still. Blood-red hair cut short, big eyes some strange color I could never put a name to. Full lips in a perpetual sneer. Her teeth were a little bit crooked. Young, twentyish, but with something in the eyes that seemed much older.
I can't honestly say if she was pretty. In my memory, she's almost impossibly beautiful.
I dreamed about her that night. We were in a fast car. She was driving. I'm not sure what we were doing, where we were going, but everything was red. After the dream, I walked around thinking of her for days.
Weeks later, we met again, by chance. A bookstore, a signing by a tattoo artist trying to sell a book of flash as fine art. I felt silly buying the glossy coffee-table book, waiting in line to get it signed. I liked the artist though, for all his pretensions.
I heard her laugh as I stood in line. Deep, a little rough; a voice like wet velvet. Pure phone sex. I shivered when I heard her.
She seemed to know the author; she was standing in the corner behind his table, poking fun at him and the fools who'd pay too much for his 'big books of bad flash.'
Then it was my turn in line. I put the big coffee-table book onto the author's card table. "Sign it", I said, "To Matteo, 'the fool who likes bad flash'".
She laughed. The author looked at me, Then at her. "Fuck Off", he said. Directed it generally at the both of us, signed my book as requested, and chuckled as he handed it back to me.
Then she and I were face to face, the line still moving along behind me. Standing in the shadowy corner at the back of the store.
"Matteo?" She said my name like she was sampling some unappealing food. She looked me up and down. "I know you. The big guy - Johnny - he was working on your back."
"He's a friend of mine," I said. I felt tongue-tied. Her gaze left me feeling naked.
"The work on your back is good. Some of it."
"Thanks. I - I remember you" I stammered. "Y-Your shirt said 'Yes It Hurts.'" I was babbling. "It was worth coming down here, standing in line..."
She looked at me. Bemused. I wanted to vanish.
"Just to - to meet you?"
She laughed. Waved to someone behind me. Lost focus on me completely for a moment, eyes tracking over my shoulder, miming 'call me' to someone I couldn't see. Then her eyes were back to me. I felt my face go hot.
"And why did you want to meet me?" she asked.
I swallowed. Unable to speak.
"Did you want to get tattooed? Or are you just in love with me?"
"I..." This was not how I wanted the conversation to be going. I usually wasn't this lame with women. "I dreamed about you," I blurted.
"And how was I?" she asked me, sneering as she said it.
Two friends had come up behind her; the same women she'd been with on our first meeting. They loomed, almost like parents eyeing an errant child talking to a stranger. A distinctly threatening vibe. The girl looked at them, looked at me, then waved them off. They retreated, but kept a line of site, still watching me.
"I don't know." Somehow I felt bolder with her friends watching - l was performing for an audience now. It was almost like a dare.
"Want to find out?" Like she was taunting.
"Yes. Yes I do."
She stepped closer. She was taller than I realized - almost as tall as I am. She reached out with a finger, traced the edge of a tattoo that shows above my open shirt collar. Her breath smelled of cinnamon. She had a tiny gold ring in her left nostril.
I was afraid to touch her. She knew it. Counted on it.
She leaned closer - breathed on my neck, my ear. Slipped an arm around me. Her breasts were small; I could feel one against my shoulder. I felt a pierced nipple press through her t-shirt.
I could feel myself hardening already.
She pressed her hip against mine, laid her head on my shoulder. "You like?" she whispered.
I think I gurgled. I couldn't speak.
She slipped both arms around my waist, started to rub herself against my hip. I could feel the crotch seam on her jeans. She nibbled my neck.
"Was it like this?" A breathy murmur against my neck.
I put my left arm around her, stopped her rubbing. She raised her head, leaned back a little and looked me in the eye. She was waiting for me to back off, or for me to tell her to. There was sweat on her upper lip, and I could hear her breathing.
She touched my face. I noticed a tattoo on her hand, two female symbols, linked.
I shifted, put a hand on her waist; touched skin where her shirt and jeans didn't meet. I moved her, pressed myself against her, my hard cock now pressing against her hip.
I heard a soft intake of breath, then a soft chuckle. "Oh, you do like me", she whispered into my ear. Her hips began to rock against me, a slow, circular grind.
I became aware of her two friends. They were moving closer, looking less amused as this went on.
I had both arms around her now, my hips starting to move with her. I closed my eyes.
"Fuck." She stopped grinding. My eyes opened. She pushed away from me, looked me in the eye, her hands on my chest. Still whispering, barely audible; "You made me wet. That wasn't supposed to happen." For the first time, she looked almost vulnerable.
She looked over her shoulder; he friends were gesturing, saying something, indicating time to go.
She turned back to me, winked, let go and walked away.
She didn't look back.
I felt faint. I couldn't breathe. It was several minutes before I could walk.
The book signing was ending; I asked the author if he knew her, knew who she was. He gestured at a pile of tattoo shop cards people had left on the corner of his table, picked one out and tossed it to me. "That's her," he said. "But you should watch out".
The card was black, shiny, lettering in red. "Tattoos by Wanton" it said. Red lips imprinted behind the name, a pattern of female symbols forming a border around the card. The name and address of a tattoo shop on the back, across the bay, outside my usual range. A shop I knew by reputation, but had never visited.
I stared at the card. Thought about throwing it away. Didn't.
I Wondered what the the remark meant, about watching out, as I jammed the card into my wallet.
The shiny black card stayed in my wallet. I knew it was there, but avoided looking it.
I had the feeling I should leave the whole thing alone. I told myself to drop it, just stay away. Only, I hate being told what to do. I could not stop thinking about her. Wanton. She had a name now, of sorts, and that just made it worse. I was enthralled by her. I wondered what her real name was, though in a way I preferred not to know.
The shop where she worked had a hipster reputation, and did as much business as a piercing place as a tattoo shop. It was in a shitty part of town; one of those neighborhoods they tell you to avoid at night. Though they sometimes seem even worse by day, when you can see exactly how decrepit and broken down the streets (and everyone in them) really are.
The block was a mixture of clapped-out tenements and seedy bars, with a couple of obvious crack houses and shooting galleries. The tattoo shop took up most of the top floor in what looked like it had been a warehouse, but was now occupied mostly by squatters. It was easy to spot from big neon signs in the window, "Tattoo," "Body Piercing". The front door was reached by a large iron external staircase, freshly painted and surprisingly well lit.
The first time I'd gone by, it had been afternoon, just turning to evening. The early hookers were drifting out, looking for a john on his way home from work, or a score to start the business day off easy. I'd found the shop, stood in the lobby looking at an impressive collection of flash, but when I'd finally worked up my courage to ask for her (feeling a little sheepish asking for the odd name), the boy at the counter had mumbled around several tongue and lip piercings that she worked other days, and then grudgingly wrote down her schedule for me. He warned I should make an appointment if I wanted to get her.
I didn't make an appointment. What would I say? I don't want a tattoo, but I'm infatuated with her. It made me feel foolish to even think it.
A couple of times I'd thought about going, after work, or on a Sunday when I knew she was working. When I finally went, it was a whim; on my way home, after watching a ball game in a bar after work, drinking a couple too many beers. I found myself getting onto the cross-bay bridge without ever making a clear choice to go.
I parked down the street from the shop - gave a homeless kid ten bucks to watch my van, with an offer of ten more if it was intact when I came back - and wandered into the shop.
Wanton was tattooing when I walked in, in a back corner. Her station was under a set of stairs that went into some sort of loft. Her back was toward the lobby, but the blood-red hair was unmistakable.
The shop was surprisingly quiet, old blues playing rather then the usual thundering hip-hop or speed metal. Only a couple of artists working, no customers in the lobby, and no one working the front desk. I could see that she was finishing work, cleaning a tattoo on a woman's shoulder, taping it up, giving the usual after-care spiel. I noticed she was left-handed.
I waited.
The customer, a fourtyish woman with the look and build of a lady cop, dropped money on the desk, used the restroom, bid Wanton goodbye (they hugged), and walked through the lobby. She looked at the tattoos on my arms as she passed, never getting her eyes above neck level or looking at my face.
Wanton was cleaning her station when she noticed me. She looked around, then gave an indifferent beckon, inviting me into the working area of the shop. She met me half way.
"You have an appointment...?" trailing off, gesturing vaguely at the two other artists, one tattooing, the other absorbed in something he was drawing at a big drafting board in the corner. She looked wary, suspicious. Her shoulders hunched.
"No. I wanted to see you, actually."
"I don't generally tattoo men."
It began to realize I had no idea what to say, what I was there for. I had thought as far as finding her, of seeing her, but my mental image had not included any actual talking.
"I - ah - I..."
"If you want a tattoo, you should make an appointment. If not - what?"
She was sensing my discomfiture; the sneer was coming back, the body language changing. Her shoulders were back. She was not wearing a bra, her nipples pressing the fabric of her wife-beater tank top.
"You're looking at my tits," she said. She was correct, of course, I was.
I smiled - relaxed a little. This was territory I could manage.
"Yes I am."
She looked at me, waited.
"It's what I came for," I said. "To look at you."
"Just look?"
"Look - at least."
"You should leave." I wasn't sure if she meant that, or was just fucking with me.
"Are you done working for the evening?" I asked. She shook her head, turned, walked back to her station, started to tidy things up.
She ignored me for a minute. I stood, arms crossed, watching her. Her ass looked great in a pair of worn and faded jeans.
She pretended to notice me, as if she'd thought I was gone. Pretended to be annoyed. I thought she was pretending, anyway.
"You still here?" she asked me.
"Still looking," I said.
She rolled her eyes, shrugged, stretched for my benefit. Popped a shiny red candy into her mouth and went back to cleaning her station, though it was clear she was mostly done.
I crossed the room, stood behind her.
"Hey, Want', you 'k?" The artist who'd been drawing when I walked in was coming toward us; young, small, obviously gay, and charmingly protective of a woman who did not look like she needed much protecting.
She looked at him, and back at me. "I don't know, am I? Am I ok?" She directed the question at me, but it seemed rhetorical. I answered anyway.
"No." I said. "Not really."
The small man looked at a loss, but she gestured him away. "I'm fine, Patrick - get outta here, go home".
Patrick looked me over, then turned back to Wanton, looking for any unspoken signal. She waved him off, and, reluctantly, he returned to his drawing board and began to collect his things.
"So" she said. "Am I in danger?"
I smiled at her. She didn't smile back. I stepped closer, touching range.
"I want to kiss you." I said.
"What if I say no?"
"What if you say yes?"
She looked past me, waved to Patrick as he left. Looked over at the other artist on the far side of the room, who was now at the bandaging stage of his tattoo.
She turned back to me.
"You should leave now."
"What if I don't?"
Her face turned very serious. Her eyes would not meet mine.
"That might be a bad choice."
She sounded like she was threatening me. And she sounded like she might be dangerously serious. For some reason, I didn't care.
"I'll take that risk." I said.
The sneer was back. She reached out, grabbed a handful of my shirt. Pulled me closer.
"You're a stupid, stupid boy," she said, breathing cinnamon in my face. "Go upstairs and wait for me."
She pushed me toward the stairs and walked toward the other tattooist.
I went up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs was a loft, divided into two rooms; the first was a storeroom, open but with a steel door and several heavy locks, clearly where they kept the valuable equipment. There was also a locked rack of guns in the back of the room.
The other looked like a living room, with a coffee table, a large couch and a couple of chairs. The room smelled of pot, cigarette smoke and spilled beer.
I sat down, waited for what seemed like an hour‚ wondering what the fuck I was getting myself into.
Eventually, the music went off, I heard good-nights in the silence downstairs, the sound of locks being locked, then the music again, hard rock, female vocals.
I didn't hear her come up the stair, the music was loud. She startled me when she stepped in the door. She was barefoot.
I stood. She came toward me, stood facing me. I reached to embrace her, tried to kiss her.
She turned her head. "No - no kissing." she said.
"What?"
"No talking. Take off your clothes."
I started to ask her if she was serious, but she covered mouth with her hand, shook her head. "Don't make me get the duct tape," she said.
I started to laugh. Then stopped.
She stepped back, gestured for me to get on with it.
My hands shook as I unbuttoned my shirt. I turned, laid my shirt on a chair ‚ sat, pulled off my boots. Then I stood.
"All of it." she said.
I undid my jeans; let them drop, stood in my boxers with my jeans around my ankles.
"Your turn," I said.
She shook her head and gestured toward my crotch. "Shut up," she said.
I slipped out of my boxers, finally, tossed them on top of my shirt, added my jeans to the pile of clothes, stood in front of her. I could feel my body beginning to react.
"Turn around" she said.
I did. She moved close, touched the tattoos that covered my back and shoulders, stroked my back.
She took her hands away then stopped me with a touch when I tried to turn. I heard her belt, then her jeans buttons, being un-done. She tossed her pants on top of mine.
I felt something touch my shoulder; soft, silky. Her panties.
I took them from her, felt them, then sniffed - they were wet, musky.
I turned around. She didn't stop me. She took the panties out of my hand, tossed them onto the pile of clothes.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Now," she said, "You make me come."
"And then?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, boy," she said. She flipped off the light switch, leaving us in semi darkness from the room lights outside.
I touched her, my palm on her belly. I backed her toward the couch, pushed her down. I knelt before her, tried again to kiss her.
She turned her head, pushed me away.
I slipped my hand between her thighs. She was wet. She opened her legs, lifted herself. I found her clit with my thumb, slipped two fingers inside her. There were small rings in her labia. Her pubic hair was sandy gold, soft as silk.
She pushed my head down.
Everything else went away when I tasted her. I don't think I've ever been as intensely focused on a single sense in my life. I'd been thinking of this, of her cunt, her taste, since that moment in the bookstore, weeks before.
I licked her cunt, her clit, sucking wetness from her and swallowing, unable to get enough, get it fast enough. I bit her, and she screamed.
"Don't stop," She hissed.
She clawed at my shaved scalp, scratched my shoulders, her heels kicking into my back, her thighs clenched around my head.
My cock was so hard I thought the skin might tear - dripping, almost coming without any contact.
I pulled my face away from her, ready to climb her, enter her. She stopped me, pushed me back. "No!" she screamed, pushing my head down again. "Finish it!" I lowered my face, began again, slipped my tongue back into her cunt, then up to her clit, sucking it, fingers pushing inside her. Her nails dug into me, drew blood.
Then she was coming, back arched, breath drawing in, moans turning to screams, then rasping, growling, panting; juices running from her, dripping from my chin. Her feet kicking me, nails raking, the stroking.
Finally, she stopped me, pushed me away, closed her legs, moaned, softly. Her eyes were closed.
"Get out of here," she whispered.
"What?"
"We're done. Go."
"But..." I stood, my cock straining toward her.
She stood, shoved me, pushed me into a chair.
"Fine ‚ jerk off then. Be quick!" She switched on the light.
I'm not sure why I obeyed her. But I did. Jerking, my cock so swollen it hurt, left hand kneading my balls. I watched her, her face slick with sweat, her hands busy in her own crotch. When I came, she stopped, watched me, watched my come spatter my chest, my face.
She threw clothes in my direction, pulled on her own jeans, panties forgotten. "Get dressed," she said. "Now - don't stop, don't clean up. Go home like that".
She walked out.
I was stunned. I dressed, come drying on my skin as I pulled on jeans, boots, dragged on my shirt without doing the buttons.
What the fuck had happened here?
I stepped out the door. The music had stopped. I wobbled down the stairs, my bootlaces trailing behind me.
"Out. Now." She stood at the door, held it open.
"Wait ‚ I - "
"Go. Now," she snarled at me. "Don't come back. Don't call. This won't happen again."
"But..."
She looked away, slapped my hand away when I reached for her, pushed me out the door.
I didn't hear the door close behind me ‚ my boots clattered on the stairs. At the bottom, in the pool of light from the building's outdoor spots, I stopped, trying to grasp where I was, what I was doing. I looked up, maybe drawn by some faint sound.
Something black fluttered down, landed near my boots. Her panties. I picked them up, started at them, slipped them into my pocket.
I heard the door lock. The lights went out.
I found my van. The homeless boy accepted his tip, offered to suck me off for ten more. "Not tonight, thanks," I mumbled.
I drove home, lost and confused.
The black panties hung from my bedpost. I tried to pretend they got there accidentally, flung in a moment of passion.
The smell of her was gone, mostly. I think I'd breathed it all out of them, trying to draw her into me. In a particularly depraved moment, I'd thought of eating them, swallowing, making then part of me. I think it was the image of where they'd wind up that stopped me, not any notion I might choke.
I carried them in my pocket for a week before I could stand to part with them.
The marks on my shoulders were no longer visible, though I could still feel a rough spot; the tattoos concealed anything else. The scratches on my scalp, though, I could still see, when I shaved my head. The one above my ear had looked a little infected at first, and I hoped it would leave a scar. I liked the idea of a permanent mark from her.
Three weeks. I still had not called her.
Each day, I had to resist the urge, car-keys or the phone in my hand. I'd memorized the shop's number. I'd driven halfway there a couple of times, but turned away.
I knew I'd give in.
I'd thrown myself into work, into exercise. I'd gotten tattooed twice, hoping the pain would help me move on. But it hadn't worked; I wound up hard, trying to hide my condition from the tattoo artist, trying not to think of her while the needle buzzed. I swore to myself I'd never get another tattoo after the first time it happened, then went back a week later for another.
At first, I could not stop jerking off. I was sore, cracked, bleeding, dehydrated. I jerked off in my van, in the bathroom at work, even in my office.
But now, I couldn't, not without seeing her, wanting her. It only made me want to cry.
When I wasn't working or exercising, I was drinking. That helped a little.
I was losing it. Darkness was calling. I kept thinking about answering.
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The tattoo convention was a long day's drive away. I wasn't going; I swore to myself as I booked a room and then canceled it. I wasn't going. Her shop had a booth; she was listed in the program. I knew she'd be there.
I didn't decide to go. I just started driving. I'd been headed for work, and then I wasn't; I was driving south.
Every mile, I'd resolve to turn around -- every hour, every stop for gas. This time, I swore, I'll turn around and go home. But I kept on driving, and having that same conversation with myself. And then I was there -- in the basement parking garage -- in the elevator -- at the doors to the convention hall, numbly paying my money to get in.
"Show's almost over, son, you sure you wanna come in? Shoulda been here yesterday, we had contests. Most of the action's done and the artists are booked up, mostly."
Yeah, I wanted to come in, just take my money, geezer.
I went to the bar. A last chance to stop and think, to pretend I was about to leave, that good judgment would intercede. That I had good judgment. I drank one and then one more. I don't know how many ones, but I told myself I wasn't drunk. In between drinks, I stared at the convention program, the booth map. She was in the last booth down, far end of the building.
Fuck it, now or never.
She was on break when I found the booth. Patrick, the little guy from the shop, looked at me funny, like maybe he knew something.
"She might not be back," he said.
"Where is she then?" I was standing too close to him.
"I don't really think she wants to see you," he was starting to look nervous. Maybe I was scaring him. It's possible I looked a little crazy.
"And I think she's booked up, if you want a tattoo."
I smiled at him. He meant well. He was her friend, so I wanted to like him. My smile seemed to scare him more.
I walked away – thought about the bar, thought about leaving, then stopped thinking and just walked. There were people I knew, but I tried to avoid eye contact. There were tattooists I'd worked with, or had wanted to meet. Today, I had nothing to say, didn't care. I just circled the convention, prowling.
When my third circuit was complete, she was back in the booth, starting a tattoo. She pretended not to see me. I waited.
The tattoo took an hour; still I waited.
She finished it, took a moment after cleaning up. Looked at me, held my eye. I stepped to the edge of the booth.
"No," she said. "Not now. Not here."
I just looked at her.
"I don't want to talk to you," She said.
"Why not?" I asked, finally.
She looked at me, the sneer gone. She was gorgeous, that deep red hair freshly cut, shaved short on the back of her neck. She wore a black shop tee shirt with the sleeves slashed off, a dark plaid schoolgirl skirt, mesh stockings. I imagined a garter belt under her skirt, but dragged my mind away from that.
"No – not here, not now." It was half snarl, half plead.
"Later?"
"No. I'm working. Tattooing."
"Tattoo me, then."
"I..." she looked around, looked at me. She had a funny look in her eye, something that scared me a little.
"Fuck. Alright. Later. Closing time. I'll do you last."
"Thank you." I said.
"Fuck off," she shot at my back as I walked away, but it didn't sound like she meant it.
I killed three hours, borrowed a hotel room from my friend Johnny, who was working a booth. I showered, helped myself to a little bottle or two from the mini-bar.
Closing time. I'd cadged a staff badge so I didn't get kicked out. Most of the booths were empty, some broken down, a few people still working. She was alone on her shop's booth, the other artists already packed and gone, off to the post-show party or getting laid with someone they'd just met.
She didn't say hello. Didn't ask me what tattoo I wanted. She looked at me, seemed to be trying to decide something. I expected her to send me away, was wondering how much of a scene I'd make and if security was close. I didn't think I would leave, no matter what she decided.
She told me, finally, to sit on a chair, facing away, straddle it cowboy style.
"I missed..." I began.
"Shut up." she said. "No talk until I'm ready."
I could hear her putting a needle together. "Take off your shirt." she said.
The needle buzzed. For people who love tattoos, the sound is like Pavlov's bell. It makes you itch; it makes you crave the ink. With her behind me, touching me, the sound made me hard.
I felt the needle dig in the small of my back. Deep, like she wanted to hurt me.
I could see her knee from the corner of my eye. Astride me like a cello player. I could see garters clipped to the stockings when I turned my head.
"Sit. Still." she said. Dug in again with the needle.
I tried to talk to her again. "I missed you."
She said nothing. The needle buzzed. Pain flared. I heard her skirt rustle as she twisted, inking the needle.
"I stayed away. Like you asked". The needle buzzed. "I wanted to call, to come by, I wanted to see you again." Stab of pain, then rustle as she dipped.
"Why?" she asked. It wasn't a question I expected or was ready for. "Why do you want to see me?"
"I..." I was at a loss. "Last time - was - incredible."
"I treated you like crap. I used you. I hurt you."
"I liked it".
She stopped. Stopped tattooing me. Stopped moving.
"Fuck." Under her breath.
She reached around, felt in my crotch. "You're hard, aren't you?" she asked me. She had her hand on my cock. I didn't need to answer.
"And you're wet, aren't you?" I asked her, knowing the answer.
"Fuck" she said again. And then the rustle, and the buzz, and the pain, and I got harder.
"What are you doing to me?" I asked. She dug.
"Marking you."
"What?"
She stopped. Rustled. Held the tattoo needle under my nose.
"Me" she said. The needle smelled of her cunt. She wasn't using ink. My mouth watered at her smell.
She started again. Buzz. Pain. She kissed my back, now, when she dipped the needle. I could hear her breathing.
She was touching herself, playing with herself, between bites of the needle.
"I've written my name on you" she said, finally.
"Are you done?"
"Yes." She whispered it. I stood. Faced her. She handed me my shirt.
She let me kiss her, kissed back. Then stopped me. "I have to clean up now. And you should get out of here."
I helped her, dumped needles into red biohazard bottles, picked up trash. She packed her gear, washed her hands.
She told me, again, that I should leave. Brushed past me. I grabbed her arm, barely slipped the punch she threw at me in return.
"I'm not done with you," I said.
She sneered. "I'm done with you, though." She shook me off. Walked away.
For five seconds, I was going to let her go. Then I wasn't.
I caught her, spun her around. Took a slap, and another, then we were kissing again. She tried to pull away, once. She was strong, but I was stronger. She bit my lip. Drew blood, kissed harder.
"Let's go to your room," I whispered, as she bit into my neck hard enough to bruise
"No." She said it through clenched teeth as she ground herself against my thigh.
I slid a hand between her legs, felt the remembered slickness.
"You're in me, now. I need to be in you".
"Hey you two!" Someone shouted. "Get a fucking room, wouldja?" The old geezer from the door. He gave me a thumbs up and a wave as we hustled out.
She slipped away from me in the lobby, made for the elevator. She tried to get the doors closed before I could get in, but I jammed a steel-toe boot into the door, got it open.
I was on her before the doors had closed again, biting her neck, forcing her legs apart with a knee, pulling her skirt up. I pushed the button for the top floor.
She screamed at me, told me to get the fuck away, to stop. She pounded her fists into my chest, dropping her case full of tattoo gear. And spread her legs, opened herself to me as I pulled out my cock.
I pulled her leg up, lifted her, pressed her back into the wall. My cock pressing against her as the elevator began to move. Everything in slow motion suddenly; sweat running down the side of her face, the vibrations of the elevator, her ragged breathing. The wetness of her cunt, my cock sliding up, tip against her clit.
"I hate you," she whispered, biting my neck, then moaned as I entered her.
Her legs were around my waist; I supported her weight. Her arms snaked around my neck, pulling me tight to her, gasping and wordlessly vocalizing with each thrust. Our mouths came together, kissing, biting. I drank in her breath, sucked it from her, licked sweat from her face and neck. I drove myself into her, deep, long strokes, lifting her in my arms and then pulling her down onto me.
30 stories to the top - we came together as the elevator slowed and stopped. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back; she gasped, drawing air between clenched teeth, then sound built in her. Muscles clenching, her entire body seeming to stiffen. Sound burst from her, low and guttural, building, rising in pitch 'til a shriek filled the tiny cage of the elevator. I came as she clenched around me, spurting, stopping, and spurting as her muscles pulsed with her orgasm. The doors opened behind us on a dark and empty hallway.
I fell back against the far wall, her legs coming down, catching herself, helping to support our combined weight. She hit the lowest button, 'P' for parking garage, and the doors began to close.
I pulled out, still hard, kissed her, then turned her around, pulling her hips toward me, pushing her shoulders away. She resisted, a little, then gave in, let me bend her over.
I entered her from behind, pounding in this time, no longer in slow motion. I feared, at any second, the elevator would stop, the doors would open. I needed to fill her, drive into her, as deep and hard and fast as I could.
My hand was in her hair, pulling, her head back. Her neck, her back, arched up. Her hands were against the wall, trying to stop her face slamming into the side of the car. I groped her with my other hand, squeezing her breast, grabbing her belly, her hip, trying to get my fingers on her clit as I slammed into her. Her face was pounding into the wall, her cries and sobs muffled.
I don't know what good luck got us all the way up and all the way down without interruption, but we came again as the doors opened to a dark basement. She reared up against me, her head against my chest. My cock slipped out of her, my fingers still on her clit. My come was firing between her legs as I continued to thrust, her legs so wet it felt like I was still inside. My fingers rammed into her cunt, two, three, trying to shove my whole hand in. She thrust her legs against the wall, almost knocking me over, pushing me into the open door of the elevator. She was silent this time, shivering, breath ragged, her entire body jerking with her orgasm.
The doors tried to close around us, slammed into us; I forced them open, once, twice, a warning alarm starting on the third shove. I held her, our breath slowing, my cock going limp between her legs.
She turned against me, finally. We kissed. Her face was bloody, nose bleeding.
Then she let me go. Stepped back into the elevator. Pushed me out.
I didn't resist.
"Please stay away from me. Please."
"I can't," I said as the elevator door closed. She was gone.
"I CAN'T!" I screamed at the closed doors, screamed it to the empty basement.
- End of Chapter One -]]>
Wanton Chapter 2tag:www.moronosphere.com,2005:/writing//14.21332003-11-29T20:34:27Z2006-01-16T05:56:16ZShe'd called me 'sugar' and wanted to 'get comfy' with me in the sleeper back of her truck, but her nicotine breath, yellow teeth and the implication that 'her husband liked to share' was plenty to get me out as soon as I had my little baggie of whites.... She wouldn't let me talk, other than to tell her about how my cock felt in my hand, asking me to taste my pre-come and tell her.Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
A novella of sexual obsession.
Chapter Two - which needs a catchy description.
The drive home was long, fueled by endless cups of 7-11 coffee and when that stopped working, small white pills I bought from a gaunt lady trucker in some nameless truck stop. She'd called me 'sugar' and wanted to 'get comfy' with me in the sleeper back of her truck, but her nicotine breath, yellow teeth and the implication that 'her husband liked to share' was plenty to get me out as soon as I had my little baggie of whites.
I imagine I was a little wild-eyed when I got to the tattoo shop - I'd gone straight there, not home first - and I was certainly disheveled. Not to say that's unusual for the neighborhood, or for tattoo shops in general.
I needed to do something. Some gesture. Some token. Something. I needed to reach out, let get know how I felt. Well, maybe not how I felt, but at least - at least how to reach me.
I'd stopped a couple of times on the road - was going to buy flowers, but I knew that was wrong. I thought about a gift, actually bought a card in a gas station where I filled the tank. I threw it out the window five miles later.
I walked in with nothing. I asked mister mouthful-of-metal if I could leave a note for Wanton, went in without waiting for his answer (which might have been 'yeah', or 'no' or 'what?' or for all I could tell, 'fuck off', but at least he didn't make a mistake and try to get in my way). I found a sheet of scrap paper, scrawled a note on it, crossed it out, started again, tossed it in the trash. I think I went through several sheets.
In the end, all I wrote was 'Please call me - Please.' I wrote my phone number, added my business card with work number, cell and email, taped it closed, and down to her desk. I wrote her name on it.
I wanted to take something, something of hers; I picked up a small pencil sketch. A heart slashed with a straight razor, dripping monochrome blood. It had a banner under it that said, simply, 'Broken'.
My vision was blurring when I walked out into sunlight. My eyes seemed to be watering. I slipped the pencil sketch into my shirt pocket.
I could still smell her on me. My hands, my face. When I pissed behind a dumpster before getting in my van, I could still smell her on my cock.
I went home. Crawled into a bottle and stayed there.
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It was a week later when I broke down and called. I got metal-mouth, and managed to extract "she's not here" from his grunts and clicks. He hung up without any other useful communication. I tried again two days after, got the same, finally asked if I could talk to Patrick.
Patrick was evasive. Suspicious. Stuck with the party line, she wasn't in the shop; then he let slip that Wanton hadn’t been back since the convention. He wouldn't say more, just hung up on me.
I hit the shop two slow cross-bay hours of traffic later.
"Where is she, Patrick?"
He was outside, smoking. "You don't know?" He asked, looking at me with the exaggerated suspicion of a cartoon character. I thought about killing him.
"No." I could feel the muscles in my shoulders tighten. "Why would I be here, asking YOU?"
He shrugged. I thought more seriously about killing him. Decided it would impede his ability to answer questions.
He told me in bits and pieces; she'd had breakfast with him the morning after. She was quiet, but nothing unusual, though he remembered a fresh cut on her mouth. She’d said she was going to catch a ride back with friends. They'd expected her back in the shop almost a week ago; no o one knew where she was. I got most of this between the lines; he seemed genuinely concerned, but also seemed to think I'd done something, or knew something.
I walked away. Came back.
"Tell her to call me - are you listening to me?"
He was non-committal. I stepped closer, put a finger to his chest. "I'm telling you, PATRICK, I'm telling you - you have her call me, or you call me when she shows up. Or I'm coming back here, and I'm going to make GODDAMNED sure you won't be doing any tattoos for a while".
He went pale - paler, anyway.
"YOU - FUCKING - GOT ME?" I was almost nose-to-nose with him.
He didn't look away. He met my eyes. I'll give him credit, I think I scared the hell out of him, but he looked me dead on.
I shoved a business card in his shirt pocket and walked away.
Two days later, he called my work number. Late, after I'd gone, I think on purpose so he wouldn't have to talk to me. "She's back at work" was the message he left on my voice mail. No name, no details, just that.
And I was back to where I'd started. She was there. I was here. I needed her, but she'd asked me, again, to stay away.
But it was a little different now. The ink-less tattoo on my back was healing, didn't hurt anymore. But I could feel the raised lines it left behind, even if they couldn't be seen. I knew I was going to see her again. She was part of me now.
She didn't call me. Not that I expected her to. I called twice, but couldn't get her. Left the same message each time, 'tell her I called'.
I walked into the shop, Sunday afternoon. The place was busy, Patrick and metal-face working the counter, the back working area a roar of music and tattoo machines. Wanton wasn't on the floor, but he station wasn't buttoned up.
A few minutes later, she came down the stairs, walked to the front, consulted a datebook, shouted something to the desk guys.
She was faced away from me. I said her name. She flinched, but didn't turn.
"Wanton!" I said again, louder. She turned her head, looked over her shoulder. She acknowledged me, barely, and then continued her exchange with Iron Jaw.
I stood my ground and waited. Eventually she stepped to the desk. She looked at me, said nothing.
She looked rough. Tired. Pale. Her lips were chapped, her eyes dull. Gorgeous, I thought, for all that.
"I had to see you, I..." I trailed off, tongue-tied as usual when seeing her.
"It's ok. I knew you would." She looked over her shoulder at someone, then back at me. She bit her lip. Tore out my heart.
"Buy me a drink, ok?" she said. Shouted to an older man in the back; "Ed? I'm gonna go." The shop's owner, her boss.
He said something I didn't catch. She walked toward his station. There was an exchange. He looked unhappy, tapped his watch, gestured at the crowded lobby. Patrick looked at them, looked at me, and then went back to helping a customer with a book of flash.
She came out past me. Shoved past a couple of customers, not waiting for me to follow.
I caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs. She was lighting a cigarette.
"C'mon," she said, gesturing across the street in the direction of a slightly less seedy bar. Again, took off without waiting for me, or even looking for cross-traffic.
The bar was dark, smoky. That universal dive bar smell, cheap beer and whiskey, tobacco and sweat, pain and despair.
She ordered wordlessly, pointed, showed a couple fingers. Same thing for both of us.
I paid. Cheap draft beer, two shots of off-brand whiskey. The barkeep was ready to pour another round before she had the shot glass back down on the bar.
For once, I didn't feel like drinking. I sipped the beer. She looked at me, drank my shot. Rapped the glass on the bar to get another.
We still hadn't exchanged a word.
I touched her, a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it away.
I let my hand fall, picked up and drank a shot. More for something to do than because I wanted it.
She lit another cigarette. "Just when I drink," she said, waving the smoke in front of me. I hadn't noticed the smoke smell on her, before.
There was a burn on her hand. The diameter of a cigarette. It looked fresh. Looking closer, it seemed like there might be a few more, under the ink on her forearm. Some of them looked old, some less so. And other marks, higher up, old, on the inside of her elbow.
"We need to talk." I stopped, started again. "About us. We need to talk".
"Is there an us?" She wouldn't look at me.
"I want there to be." I wanted to turn her around. Make her look at me.
"You fucked me. Made me come. That doesn't make us - 'Us'." She ground out her smoke, lit another.
"What does it mean then?" My voice sounded high and strident. I sipped my beer, drank it off, not waiting to be drunk, but needing to do something.
"It means we had sex".
"Just that?"
"Alright." She looked at me. The sneer was coming back. She was flushed from the drink. "Alright. It means we had great sex. Fantastic sex."
I waited - wanted her to go on.
"So?" she said. "Good sex is a hundred bucks down the street. Great sex is a G uptown."
"It was more than that."
She looked away. Shook her head. Didn't answer.
I waved the bartender down. Ordered more beer.
"I want it to be more than that" I started again. "I want us to be more than that." I sipped. At least the beer was cold. "I want to see you, be - be with you."
She looked back at me. Looked away. Waved her shot glass for a refill. "Just give us the bottle," she told the bartender. "e's payin' for it." She jerked a thumb in my direction. The old black man looked my way for approval, made the universal 'show me money' gesture, fingers and thumb rubbing together.
I dropped a fifty on the bar.
I tried again. "I want to take you out."
She interrupted me. "You want to fucking DATE me?" Incredulous, derisive. She tossed back another shot, slammed the glass down with a loud crack. "You want to be my fucking BOYFRIEND?" She was almost shouting now. An aging hooker down the bar looked at us, pleased, finding soap opera drama here in her favorite watering hole.
"No - yes - I don't..."
"Get the fuck away from me." Not shouting now. Cold. She stepped off the barstool, stumbled, and then walked away. Out the door.
I sat. Paralyzed.
"Whatt'a ya' doing, dipshit? Go after her!" the hooker said.
I pushed away from the bar, almost knocking over a barstool. The barkeep waved my bottle and my change at me.
I'm not sure why. I took the bottle. Left the change.
She was walking away, but not very fast. Knew I'd come after her. Didn't stop and wait for me, but I caught up in a few steps.
"Where are you parked?" she asked, unexpectedly. "What do you drive?"
I gestured down the street. It was getting dark.
'You need a ride?" I asked.
"I need a drink," she answered.
We walked, tuned into an alley. I was parked behind a dumpster, in shadows. Stupid place to park, in this neighborhood, but my van was unharmed.
"This yours?" she asked.
I drive an old Ford Econoline van. It once sported the logo of a house painter, badly lettered on the side. I found it for sale when the previous owner died, his wife not knowing how much to ask. I picked it up for nothing, worked on in all that summer. It was my teenage rolling party, the van full of big house bongs and party kegs. I'd always planned to sell it when I got out on my own, but never did. It sat in a friend's back yard for a couple years while I was riding motorcycles and not wanting to be seen in an old van. But now, I had a mechanic who thought the old thing was cool. We'd been fixing it up, hot-rodding the engine, new paint, new carpet in the back. It was cherry red, with sacred hearts and skulls, 'Sailor Jerry' flash painted on the sides.
"Yeah," I said. "It's mine".
She shook her head. Sneering again. Took the bottle from me, twisted off the top. She pulled the keys from my belt loop and opened the door. Climbed into the driver's seat.
I walked around, got in, shotgun. Took the keys away from her when she tried to find the ignition.
"You're in no shape..." I began.
"You want to date me, huh?" Derisive. Made the word an insult. "I'm not your goddamned girlfriend. I'm your fucking whore."
I stared at her. She reached across, grabbed my belt, yanked in open. I should have stopped her. I helped her instead.
She grinned at me. Took a pull from the bottle, then she found my little baggie of whites tucked into the visor. She crunched a couple, washed then down with more whiskey, and handed the bottle to me.
I drank. Closed my eyes. Felt her hands on my cock, and then her mouth.
It's not that I've had a lot of blowjobs. It's not an expert, a blowjob connoisseur. But I've always thought there was no such thing as a bad blowjob. She was terrible at it. Teeth, hand gripping the shaft too tight, gagging herself, stopping every time it felt right. She was hurting me.
"Take off 'yer pants" she ordered me, coming up for air and more whiskey. I slid them down to my knees. Then she was back at me, the whiskey in her mouth burning, but it felt ok, and she grabbed my balls, squeezed, then jammed a finger into my ass, dry. It hurt; I screamed, grabbed her hair.
"Stop it," I said. "I want to fuck you".
She wiped her mouth, sat back. "Go to hell," she said.
"I'm going to fuck you. Get in the back".
There are no back seats in my van, just carpet, a couple pillows, an army surplus blanket. I lost my virginity in this van, at 17. I hadn't had a girl in it, in the back, for a long time.
"What, you're going to force me?" she scoffed at me.
"If I have to."
"If you want me, you'll have to."
She moved, started to get out. I stopped her, grabbed her arm, pulled her back. Shoved her over the back of the seat. She went limp, I thought for a moment she was giving in. I went over the seats after her.
She started kicking me, her engineer boots aiming for my nuts, missing in the dark. She caught my thigh but didn't have much on the kick. It stung.
I caught her by the throat. Pushed her down. Kissed her. She kissed back. My jeans were still around my knees; I tried to get out of them but wound up tangled.
"Get off of me." she said.
"No. I'm going to fuck you."
"You're wanting to rape me. Say it. Rape."
"No."
"Then go to hell." She shoved me, stronger than I expected, sounding a little crazy now, the whites starting to hit her system with the booze. She punched me in the chest. Kept punching me. "Go. To. Hell." Her fists punctuating her words, then a slap across my face.
"You want me to rape you." I said. Not a question.
She went limp. Breathing hard. "Fool," she said. "If I want it, it isn't rape". My cock was hard. My face stung from her slaps. I needed to be in her. To take her.
I reached down, pulled up her skirt. Tore her panties. She screamed, then stiff-armed my jaw, driving my teeth into my tongue, drawing blood.
"FUCK!" I yelled, blood spattering her face with my shout. "YOU BITCH! That Fucking HURT!"
Blood was trickling down my chin. She kicked me again, drove her knee into my crotch, hitting home this time. I rolled off of her, doubled up, gagging. Then she was over me, something in her hand, the whiskey bottle. She swung for my head, missed, shattered the bottle against the spare tire. Glass shards dug into my cheek. She jabbed the bottle towards my face, screaming something I couldn't understand.
I lost control then. Hit her. The pain and desire becoming rage,
I boxed in high school. Wasn't really good, never learned to defend myself very well. I lost a lot of matches, still have scars from it. But I won a few, too, because I could deliver a decent punch. Usually when I connected, I won.
I fired three quick jabs at Wanton. The second one missed. The first one caught her in the eye, snapped her head back. I felt something crunch, like bone breaking. I learned later it was in my hand, but then, I thought it was her cheekbone. The third punch didn't do much; she was already pulling away, rolling off. It caught her in the chest.
Then she was gone. Out of the van, running down the street. I lost her, couldn't get my pants on, landed face down as I came out of the van. By the time I was up, I could see a cab screaming away up the street, moving before the door was even closed.
Something golden was caught on the ring I wear on my right hand. Her nose ring, bent out of shape and bloody.
I watched the cab recede into the distance. Stood after it was gone. I felt blood dripping from my chin, my tongue swelling. I mumbled her name, wishing I could die, right here.
Hating.
[center]
* * *
[/center]
I'd finished the whites on the way home. Bought meth from my neighbor after that. Bought a lot of it.
The next few days are a blur. I know I didn't sleep. I think I didn't eat. I recall trying to stitch the cuts on my face with a travel sewing kit, pink thread and a dull needle. I Gave up (my hands were shaking) and repaired the cuts with krazy glue instead.
Parts of this time are simply gone from my memory. I wish it could all be gone.
I wanted to be dead. Played next-car-game waiting for the police to show up, arrest me for attempted rape, assault. I knew I'd fucked myself forever, I'd never see her again.
Eventually, the crank ran out. Or I forgot where I stashed it in some paranoid moment. A while later, so did the whisky, and then the beer. And then I slept for three years.
When I finally dragged myself out, bruised, filthy, unshaved, I didn't know what time, what day it was.
I didn't check my phone messages for another two days.
Somehow I kept my job. I'd been missing - cell phone turned off, not checking in, just gone - for most of a week. I'm not sure why they didn't fire me. Maybe the fresh scars on my face just scared them.
When I finally checked my messages, I found I had dozens. Mostly hang-ups, two or three a day, interspersed with "will you be in" calls from work and then later "Where the hell are you".
Then there she was, her voice on my machine; "Hey Matteo, how are you? I'm ok. I miss you". I thought I was losing my mind. "So I'm still thinking about you, how good you cock felt in my mouth."
I thought, What the fuck?
She reached me that night, in person. I was lifting weights, my hand still aching but trying to ignore it.
The phone rang. I tried to finish my set. It rang again. "Fuck it" I growled, pounded the barbell into the rack. I grabbed the phone off the hook.
"Yes?" I barked into the receiver.
"What are you wearing?" she asked, in a breathy, sexy voice.
The incongruity of it, the absurdity, left me absolutely speechless.
"Baby? Did I lose you?"
"I - I'm here." I stammered.
"Mmmmmm..." she purred.
"Are you - how is your..."
"Shhh!" she said. "None of that."
I was silent, listening to her breathe.
"Take off your clothes," she said. "I'm wearing a thong. Nothing else. You like me in a thong, don't you baby?"
The universe had off-kilter. The woman I'd almost beaten to death was now talking like a phone sex slut in my ear. And goddamnit if I wasn't reacting.
"I'm sweaty. Shorts. I've been lifting weights." I said. No idea why I was playing along, even less idea why I was telling her the truth.
"Uuuughh." A back of the throat noise. I couldn't tell what it meant. "I'm touching myself," she whispered. "I want to lick the sweat off your tattoos."
"You're making me hard," I told her. Faintly angry about the fact, not hiding the anger.
"Of course I am." She laughed. "I can make you anything I want".
My cock throbbed. I untied my shorts, dropped them to the floor. Closed my eyes.
"Are you rubbing your cock?" she asked.
"No." I was lying.
"My fingers are wet. Do you want me to taste them?"
I swallowed. "Yes," I said. My eyes were still closed.
Wet, exaggerated sucking noises. A little girl voice. "Oh, it tastes so good." I swallowed. Unable to speak.
There was a noise in the background over the phone, a clatter, a fumbling sound.
"...have to go." She hissed. The phone slammed down.
I came, weakly, come dribbling though my fingers. I opened my eyes, Stared at the phone in my left hand. Wishing that I'd never met her.
The call was the same, the next night. Late though, she woke me up. Whispering, telling me about what she was doing. Using little girl words, titties, clitty. Telling me she wanted my great big cock. Some of it sounded like she was reading it off a card. She wouldn't let me talk, other than to tell her about how my cock felt in my hand, asking me to taste my pre-come and tell her. She hung up as soon as I came, didn't even say goodbye, just clicked off.
The next call - at work this time, 11am - she wanted me to jerk off in my office. I tried to talk. Find out if she was ok, what the hell we were doing. She shushed me, then hung up when I said I wanted to see her.
That night's call, her words were slurred, hard to understand. She told me about her vibrator, what she was doing with it. I only pretended to masturbate.
After that, the calls got less frequent, but the slurring seemed worse, or she'd be talking fast, seemed wired. I stopped answering the phone after ten most nights.
"I don't want to do this," I told her one night. She sounded clearer than usual. Had started with "Hey" instead of stage sex talk. She paused, a long silence.
"Then what do you want?" she asked.
"You."
"No"
"Yes."
"No. I'm not yours. I won't, can't be."
I was silent.
"Should I stop calling you?" she asked.
I swallowed. Started to say 'yes'. Then to say 'no'. Finally, all I could think to say was the simple truth.
"Wanton, I love you".
Long silence.
"Go to hell," she said quietly. Sniffed, hung up the phone. The line went dead.
I started at the receiver in my hand for a long time.
"This has to fucking change," I said to the empty air.
Sunday. I called the shop at noon, the posted opening time. There was no answer. I Finally got through to a person at 1:15. I Asked for Wanton, then for Patrick.
"I need to reach her, Patrick."
"She doesn't want to talk to you."
"Is she there?"
"She's never here, if it's you calling."
"Patrick."
Silence.
"Patrick." A little louder this time.
"Don't you fucking threaten me."
"Patrick." My voice caught. "I need to talk to her."
I think it was the catch in my voice. He sounded a little less hostile. "She's really not here."
"When will she be?"
"I can't..." he trailed off.
"I - I love her, Patrick." My voice catching. I heard him sigh.
"She's going to kill me. She'd due in a three. Call at three-fifteen, I'll get her on."
"She'll talk to me?"
"I'll get her on the phone. I can't make her do anything - anything beyond that. No one can make Wanton do anything she doesn't want to do."
I watched the clock. Did push-ups. Watched the clock some more. Tried to make it move faster. 3:15 took months to roll around. I waited another agonizing minute, finally called at 3:16. Patrick answered. "She's here" was all she said. He put the phone down, didn't put me on hold. I could hear music, voices.
"What?" she snapped into the phone, when she picked it up.
"Wanton."
"Yes."
"I'm coming to get you."
"Are you out of your mind?"
"Yes I am." I think it might have been true. "I have to see you."
"I'm working."
"I don't care."
"You're going to kidnap me?" She sounded amused, suddenly.
"Yes."
I didn't start with a plan. One was coming together.
"Fuck you." She had a way of saying that, made it sound affectionate. "I'm off work at 10."
She was waiting out front, 9:50, when I drove by. I stopped, backed up.
She clattered down the stairs, got in. She threw her cigarette out the window. Looked at a pair of handcuffs on the dashboard.
"Do I need to use those?" I asked. "I also have a blindfold."
"What are we doing?" she asked.
"I'm kidnapping you. You don't get to ask."
"Don't fuck with me," she snapped.
I drove. Past liquor stores, gas stations. Pulled in, some el rancho motel or something, with a broken neon sign that once showed a neon girl diving into a neon pool. We parked where the pool once was, now an uneven space in the concrete parking lot.
"Here?" she asked.
"All night," I said.
"No."
I grabbed her wrist. Held. She pulled. I held tighter, looked into her eyes. "You don't get a vote."
Her eyes widened, temper flaring. The she smiled. She leaned over, kissed the side of my face. Whispered, the little girl voice from the phone calls. Something I couldn't make out, muffled against my cheek. Kissed me again, on the mouth.
I got out. Checked us in, paying cash. 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith'.
She was out of the car when I came back. . I grabbed my bag, locked the van.
Room 13. Lucky 13.
It was cool in the room; the ac running. She looked around. Dropped her purse. She turned to look at me. First time I'd seen her in the light.
Her left eye showed residual purple; results of the black eye I'd given her. I stepped close, touched her face. "I - I'm..." she touched my face, traced the healing cuts around my eye. Said nothing. She'd replaced her nose ring - a thicker gauge this time. The hole was ragged, where the old one had torn out.
"Your eye," I said. "Your nose."
"It's nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Bruises are pretty," she said. "And it's not like people at work haven't seen me with a shiner before.
She turned away. "The one my chest is prettier."
I flexed my hand, still aching and a little swollen. I'd cracked a bone or something, never had it looked at. "I shouldn't have - "
"Stop," she said. "It didn't happen. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters."
She walked away, toward the bathroom.
"I need a shower," she said. "Go get us something to drink."
"What do you feel like drinking?" I asked.
She stopped in the bathroom door, looked at me over her shoulder. Game me a Betty Boop wiggle. "It's a martini sort of night," she said, the voice going with the move.
I walked across the street, bought gin and ice. I wondered if she'd be there when I got back. My car-keys were on the table in the motel room.
The shower was running when I got back; I dumped ice in the bucket, stuck the gin bottle in. My bag and toilet kit were open, my razor and toothbrush missing, nothing else touched. I sat on the bed, listed to the shower run, then stop.
She came out wrapped in a towel; hair wet, face flushed. I could see the fading purple bruise on her chest, above her left breast. It was partially hidden between tattoos.
"Mix me a drink," she said.
Her mouth tasted of gin, a few minutes later. She'd tossed one back, was sipping another. She looked fucking good in a towel. I kissed her, realized I'd never seen her naked. Kissed her again. Gin tastes good in a woman's mouth.
She turned away. Put down her drink, Opened the towel. She Looked over her shoulder at me, made a serpentine, dancing move. The towel sliding over her ass. She turned back, pulling the towel around her again. Told me to get comfortable.
I did. Took of my boots, my jeans. Pulled off my tee shirt. I tossed my clothes across the room. Watching her all the while as she did a slow bump and grind. "We need music," she said.
I found a Motown station on the cheap clock radio that was bolted to the end table. Week reception, static, but it didn't matter. I peeled the covers back. She was behind me, towel open, wrapping it around me. I could feel her breasts against my back. She continued her slow dance, her body warm and damp. The towel dropped, and she was on her knees, peeling my boxers down, kissing the place she'd tattooed me, gently biting my ass cheek. Her hands slid up and down my sides. Slow.
I was afraid to move. Afraid to disrupt this. But then her hand was between my legs, her fingers stroking my balls. I turned, looked down at her. She smiled up at me.
"So," she said, the little girl voice again. "What should we do now?"
I lifted her to her feet. Held her. Then looked at her, at arms length, my hands on her shoulders. Tattoos across her shoulders, down her sides, framing her small, round breasts. She had pierced nipples, thick gold rings.
"I want you so - so badly." I said, through clenched teeth.
Her head tilted back. She looked at me though half-closed lids. Her sneering smile widening. "For now - right now, you have me."
I crushed her to me, hard enough to knock breath from her. Felt the rings in her nipples dig into my chest. Her mouth found mine.
We'd kissed before, but this was different. This wasn't a rush, an attack. This was 'let's start over', 'let's get to know each other'.
I held her, slowly taking more of her weight as her body molded itself to mine.
Her lips were soft, her tongue, gentle. We explored each other carefully, not pressing too fast. Both with eyes closed. I could feel her nose ring as we shifted, changing sides. My cock pressed into her belly. I held her tight against me, not wanting to rub against her, not yet, trying to pace this, keep it slow.
Her tongue explored my mouth; I opened, welcoming. I could feel her explore the chips in my teeth, souvenirs of my misspent youth.
She pulled away, pressed her cheek to mine, let out a stuttering, ragged sighing breath. Her face rested against my shoulder. I could feel her teeth, gripping my skin, but not - quite - biting.
She whispered my name.
Tableau: We held there. Frozen. Breathing. Knowing movement - any movement - would change this.
Then slowly, she withdrew. Lifted her head, arms sliding from around me to her sides. She leaned back, our pelvises still together. My arms around her waist supporting her.
She looked at me, her eyes wet, blinking. She sniffed. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand. I caught her hand in mine, kissed it.
She pushed me, away, then down onto the bed. Gentle, smiling now. She stood over me, looking at my cock.
"Oooh," she said, in the little girl voice. "So big!"
She was kneeling on the bed now, over me, astride me. Leaned forward, her hands on my chest. She stroked, found my nipples. Played with them. Then lowered her face to my chest, sucked my nipple, and then bit. Gently.
I moaned. Pushed her away, off, rolled over with her, me on top now. I kissed the bruise on her chest, then found her nipple, the ring. Sucked. The faint musk of her skin intoxicated me.
I kissed from one nipple to the other; her legs were rubbing against mine, sliding up my thighs, outside, then between. Her arms were above her head, her back arching as I sucked and then bit her nipples. She moaned faintly, sighed, still in that voice.
I began to work down. Tracing down her breastbone, her navel, kissing my way around it, following the tattoos, twined leaves and flowers. My tongue explored her navel. She shivered.
"Oooh, eat me, daddy, suck my honey pot." I was vaguely aware of what she was saying; but my focus was on other senses.
She's shaved herself, when she showered. Smooth and pink, a vaguely heart-shaped thatch of sandy-gold pubic hair left. She was slickly wet, shining. I kissed the crooked patch of hair, smelled the hot female scent of her. Licked wetness from her inner thighs, her labia, the tiny gold rings. The cheeks of her ass. Trying not to hurry. Not opening her, not touching her clit.
Her lips were swollen; she tried to push her hips up, arch up into my face. I held her down, hand on her belly. Heard faint mumbles from her, something pornographic. I slipped the tip of my tongue between her lips, tasting salty-sweet. I stroked the tip of her clit while she gasped and stroked my scalp, the back of my neck.
I sat back, looked at her; eyes closed, mouth open, far away for a moment. She pursed her lips, brought her hands to her crotch, stroked her pussy with one hand. "Come back," she said softly.
I put my hands under her knees; pulled them up, spread them. I wanted to open her, expose her. She sucked in breath through clenched teeth.
Still holding her legs up, I lowered my face, licked her cunt, swallowed. I felt for the tip of her clit with my tongue, teased it, flicked, then worked down; tongue-fucked her once or twice. She bucked, gasped, then started in the little girl voice again - "Oh, yes, Daddy, yes, you lick it so good..."
I wanted her to stop. Reared up, threw myself at her, kissed her. Found her cunt with my hand while I shoved my tongue into her mouth.
She sucked, licked her own juices from my face; "Oh, I taste so good" she moaned. Then "My turn, Big Daddy" and she pushed me over, climbed on top of me.
"Want to put that great big cock in my tight little pussy?" she said, straddling me, grinding her hips into mine. I cupped her breasts in my hands, thrust up against her.
"Yes - oh god, yes." I moaned.
She took the shaft in her hand, raised her hips, rubbed the head of my cock in her wetness, played it over her clit. Then slowly, slowly, lowered herself onto me, working my cock in, an inch at a time.
I stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Stopped being anything but cock. She squeezed me, muscles clenching, hard enough to hurt. We exhaled together, great ragged wordless noises, held still for long, long seconds, and then began to move together. Her hands were on my chest, her hips working up and down. I grasped her waist, let her lead, helped her motions as she gradually picked up speed. Soon I was thrusting up into her, now my motions guiding our rhythm.
She was riding me like a rodeo cowboy, one hand on my groin, one raised above hear head; soon she was shouting to go along with this, "Oh, baby!" "Harder!" And once, an absurd "Yahoo!"
I pulled her down, crushing her to my chest, to kiss her, but also to shut her up. Then I lifted her, pushed her off.
She rolled onto her stomach, raised her ass into the air; I pushed my cock into her from behind, grabbing her hips, pulling her against me. I pushed her face down into a pillow to muffle her. I could still hear it, though, "you fuck me so good, so hard, oh yeah, oh baby". Some sort of weird porn-movie soundtrack.
"Stop it!" I said. In between thrusts "Stop." Thrust. "Talking." Thrust. "Like" Thrust "That!" Pulled out of her. Rolled her over, looked into her face.
"Come on my tits, Big Daddy," she said. "Shoot that stuff all over my tummy." My cock throbbed.
"Stop it," I said. She smiled, reached for my cock. Pulled me into her. She pulled me down, taking my weight on her chest, pulling my ass 'til I was all the way in. Clenched tight. She kissed me, hard, long, her tongue thrusting deep into my mouth.
"Make me come," she whispered, her real voice this time, as I thrust into her, felt my orgasm start, felt hers along with it.
She came, silent, shuddering, biting her lip, legs thrashing. She finished with gasps, and then sobs.
I felt myself near tears, overcome, so filled with the need to tell her I could barely contain it. But didn't, didn't say the words; 'I love you'.
We rolled over together, ended on our sides. We stayed that way until our breathing, in sync now, slowed. Then she slid away from me, our bodies slick with sweat and come. "I have to pee," she said, and giggled, not the cartoon voice, but real, deep and throaty. She left the door open; I could hear her go. She came back with a glass of water, and a towel, began to towel me off as I drank.
She switched off the light, crawled in next to me in the bed. Stroked me, my chest, my cock. She'd popped a candy in her mouth when she'd gotten up; her breath smelled of cinnamon. I fell asleep to the soft sound of hear breath.
I woke in the middle of the night. Turned to look at her, her face visible in dim light from the street. She lay beside me, eyes open, facing the ceiling. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks. I said noting, touched her cheek, wiped away tears. Then moved close, kissed, licked away the salty wetness from her face.
We made love quietly, no talk, no nonsense. Her on top, controlling the pace. Kissing throughout, gently. She never came, but brought me off, then kissed her way down to my cock, sucked until I was soft, licked my balls. Her head still rested on my hip when I went back to sleep.
Morning. The sound - feel - of an empty room. I knew she was gone before I opened my eyes. I crawled out of bed, glad I'd barely touched the gin, glad for once of a clear head.
I pissed, brushed my teeth, washed my face. Still not awake, trying not to deal with her absence.
I stood in the middle of the room. Looked around. Felt the emptiness. Inside, as well as out. Began to pack.
The note was with my keys. One word. 'Goodbye'.
Nothing else. No names, no signature, no message. The finality of it deadly clear to me. She'd taken the gin bottle with her, left nothing behind but the sweet smell of her on bed, sink, toilet, on my skin, everywhere she'd touched. I stood, breathed her in, tried to tell myself it was 'c-ya', 'later on', 'TTFN', some trite stupid thing.
Goodbye.
I drove home. Pulled tapes from a box in my van. Songs about misery and suicide. I listened to Matthew Sweet sing about needing someone to pull the trigger, to the Gin Blossoms singing about blowing the whole thing and being alone - all the things they sang about before the song-writer offed himself with a .38.
I wished I were a songwriter, so I could make the way I felt sound lyrical. Wished I were sincere enough to think about suicide without feeling stupid.
- End of Chapter Two -]]>
Wanton Chapter 3tag:www.moronosphere.com,2005:/writing//14.21322003-11-29T20:33:12Z2006-01-16T05:57:14ZHe did tell me, almost in a tone of brotherly advice, that it just wasn't a good idea, and there wasn't anything there; that I would do better to try to move on. He wouldn't give her messages, but did let her know I'd called, or said he did.... I hit her like I was sacking a quarterback, all fast-twitch- muscle movement, taking her down as quick and hard as possible, slamming her to the floor, driving breath out of both of us. I came up off her, terrified I'd driven the knife in; saw blood, but I'd just raked it across her hip sideways.Karl Elvishttp://www.moronosphere.com/
A novella of sexual obsession.
Chapter three - There's only one way this can end.
Things have a way of falling apart when you don't give a rat's ass.
My job went first. They had to call me to tell me I was fired. 'Let Go', they called it, euphemistically. I guess that's what happens when you just quit going to work.
Entropy seized my universe after that.
When you stop earning a living, it's hard to pay your rent. Particularly if you're spending your money on bail, booze and crank. Harder still when you have to spend it on getting your car repaired after running it into several things. It helps for a while if you sell stuff, but that requires that you have stuff to sell.
Most of what I own is shit people give away or leave on a street corner, apart from a good set of weights, a not-too-bad computer, an old motorcycle that hasn't run in a couple years. That, and some pretty damned good original artwork from my tattooist friends.
The computer was the first to go - fuck work, fuck the tools I work with. I sold it to a friend. I sold the same friend my stereo and TV as well. The stereo was the hardest to part with. I figured I'd try to sell the bike next, see if it would get me a few bucks. The weights, I'd already decided, would go last, even if I had to sleep on the floor and sell my crappy bed. The art, well, the art just wasn't going to be sold. Some places, a man has to take a stand.
I still had electricity. Not for much longer though. The phone was shut off, but I had my cell phone. My ex-employers forgot to ask for it back, and better yet, hadn't canceled service. Water came with the rent, and well, I was wondering if I could threaten my landlady to let me slide another month, or if maybe the old bag would let me fuck her for the difference. Or maybe I should just burn the fucking place down.
There was some other shit - some fights I'd gotten into, a couple of friends I'd pissed off. A tattoo shop over the hill I was no longer welcome in, after showing up drunk, demanding something. I don't recall details, but heard around town I'd made a serious scene and been tossed out physically. My neighbor had cut of my credit as well, told me I had to actually pay him if I wanted more crank or weed. Which was just as well, that shit's bad for me. Makes me see shit. Makes me talk to people who aren't there.
I'd also tried to talk an old girlfriend into a pity fuck, which evidently made her husband pretty angry. That was a bad thing; he drinks with cops, and now I knew the local boys in blue were keeping an eye on me.
All in all, then, my life was bountiful. I spent my days trying to move on, pretending this was the day I would put it back together. I'd stop drinking, try to dig up something like a job. Today. Or tomorrow. Ma