Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Another Day, Another Dollar

We laid in the bushes. My heart was beating like a steel drum. Bum. Bum. I knew we couldn't go on like this. The constant hiding. The sneaky letters hidden on the bottom of beer soaked coasters.

We worked together. Servers for your beverage and sustenance needs. Snook's Burgers and Shakes.

Keven asked me on a date the first night I worked with him. He said that he wasn't sure why, but he was compelled to ask. Said that I was special. We made love that first night and haven't stopped since.

I thumbed through the little green rule book at orientation; it's pages stained brown and yellow from years of employees running their fingers through it. In bold, black ink it read: "No employee dating, under any circumstances." Since I was in the first flush of my training, they let me hold on to the rules, so that I familiarize myself with its contents.

I was a little too familiar now.

My mother always said, never date anyone you work with. But, the rules change when it's your boss, and you need this job or you'll end up sitting on a curb with all your shit and your thumb up your ass. Yeah, she didn't cover that during the child-rearing years.

Now, we sit and wait, hoping that that light streaming through the tangled web of bushes and leaves was just a kid looking for his lost watch. And trying to maneuver around so that we could pull on shirts and pants and shoes. We're a heap of body hair and pale limbs.

The sound of a static and jumbled speech from a walkie-talkie ring out in the air. Shit. I don't know what I'll do if we're caught. I'm only a minor for two more weeks...and I'm pretty sure his wife won't be too happy.

I really wish my mom had covered this during that child rearing phase. Shit.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Dragon Tattoo

He was a hermit. Jason, that is. The rooms of his apartment were mish-mosh warehouse of computer parts, rusted tools and well-thumbed books. It was hazardous trying to maneuver throw the piles if you didn't know the place as well as him. He was like a mole scurrying through the zigzag paths he laid out.

It was utter chaos.

Jason wasn't the type to disregard his appearance, even if he only made bi-monthly public appearances. He had a smooth, toned chest. Hazel eyes. And a dragon tattoo that wrapped around his back and spread out over his chest, breathing flames just above his nipple.

Just looking at him was enough to make me have an orgasm.

When we first met, he was making one of those random little ventures out to the book store, to load up on a solid month-worth of reading material. I happened to bump in to him. Literally. I fell flat on my ass, and he pulled me up tender hands. I straightened out my black and white plaid dress, and he stooped down to pick up my selected books. Ah, the joyous Orwell. The hilarious Eggers. He looked down at my soon-to-be-purchased books and smiled. That day marked the best thing to happen to me in ten years.

Since then, we've been in this on again off again relationship. I can't get him to get the hell out of the house. And he drives me nuts with his obsessive need to categorize all his computer bits.

The odd hours.

The restless need to write.

The strange things he says to me.

The collection of panties in the top drawer of his dresser.

Our fights would span over days, weeks. I couldn't believe that this man, this hermit, who never leaves the house, is sleeping with countless women throughout the city. They leave their souvenirs for him to do...I don't even want to know what with. The pink silk ones. The black lacy ones. The red boy-shorts.

He always curbs my anger by fucking me stupid. I can't even describe it. Like when a tornado plows through a house.

I watch him roll out of bed. He maneuvers around the pile of books at the end of the bed, dusty flap-jackets poking out at odd corners. I sit up, wrapping the sheets around my body. And stare into the eyes of the retreating dragon.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Blonde Baby, Blone

And this is one other vinyette I found from summer '09:


I sit in the shade of a big oak and listen to the birds chirping. I listen to the sound of my heart, pounding loud against my chest like police at a druggie's door.

She's been nothing but an addiction. Smooth golden hair. Small pert mouth. Baby blue hues. I can smell her scent, a mix of cinnamon and strawberries, even though she's been gone for three hours.

Beth.

Our first fight.

She's been seeing other people. Last night I found half a dozen used condoms floating in her pool, and a girl with a pearl necklace lying, passed out on the diving board. Her hand squeezing an empty beer bottle for life support.

Beth said it was a small get together with close friends. She had nothing to do with the copious amounts of sex.

I was a fool to believe her.

Black, white and gray fuzz played across the TV. That monochromatic, static noise. I walked over to the TV and rewound the VCR. She was old school. Love old tapes, vinyls and books. Always said she preferred the old way of doing things to this technological perversion. This new age vision.

Click. The tape was ready. I pressed play.

Creampies and rim-jobs. Bukkake and irrumatio. Beth was a star. A filthy blow-up doll in a porn flick.

You can't ask a girl like that stop. Beg for the sake of your sanity. Your relationship. She's a hound. She can smell the sex oozing out of people. She feeds on it.

Now she's gone. Gone like a fallen ice cycle. Shattered. Gone. And I sit alone under the heavy branches of an oak tree.

Dream Baby, of the Big Tomorrow

This is something I stumbled upon that I'd written in the summer of 2009:



I'm lucid, but only for a second. It's a nice refresher from the shiftless dreams and waving to the big bye bye of normal day musings. This moment seems to last during the time span of boiling egg. It's going to slip though. Crashing. Burning into the distance.

I fight the urge to fall back into old patterns. Match, one. Puff, two. Cumm, three. It's all just a mundane repeat of the night before. An endless cycle of pounding and thrashing. I watch the smoke float from my nose in blue whisps. Think about the way that broad felt last night. All smooth skin and perky nipples.

I thought about masterbating. But I'm too lazy. I'd rather feel the shake of a man under me. Or tremor of a woman's legs as she explodes. Cum-shots and refugees.

I slide thin arms into silk chiffon and tie the robe at my waist. I dial a number. Any number. It doesn't really matter at this point. I just want to feel another body.

Jess is coming over. He's always up to a morning of flouncing between egyptian sheets.

I wash my face in the sink. Splash. Cold to hot. Hot to cold. I look up, into the swirling pool of metal and sand. The mirror. The door. I stare.

The person in the mirror is not me.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Sinner for a Saint

There was this guy, Nell. He had sweet smelling skin, like cinnabuns and Christmas. And this sexy little abs that made me want to throw him down fuck him like I only had a day left to live.

But the problem with Nell, was, well, see, Nell was a whore. I don't mean that he slept around with everything that'd hold still long enough. No, he was an honest to God whore, who'd palm sweaty, crinkled dollar bills after a fun little fuck-fest.

The shittiest part of it all was that I loved him. God, I loved him.

We'd sit under the maple tree, talking about philosophy. He'd sing me these cute little songs to me:

When heaven was hell on earth,
I'd caress your checks,
Touch you, Move you, Fuck you
Bring us closer to God.

That sort of thing. They were a lot cuter, sexier even when he sang them. Don't let the lyrics fool you. He'd carry my heart in his palm with those words.

But that was then.

Right now, right now I've been standing here, looking down at his body, a twisted heap of bluish skin and coagulated blood. Right now, I've been trying to decide whether to call the police or just look for clues myself.

In a town like this, the police don't give a rat's ass for a whore. He and I, we're alone in this big city. And I gotta find out who took my sweet angel, sins and all.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Oh, just something short.

Our skin touched. His body was so beautiful, like touching a chiselled statue. He was my David, my statue carved in the mound of Michelangelo's thoughts.

I caressed his skin, and slid my tongue down the length of his body, coming closer to trails of red and pubic hair. Ah, what patriotism unfolded. His skin, bluing around the edges, glowed next to streams of coursing red.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Through a Dazing Light

My mind runs in loops and hollows. Everything looks as though I'm seeing it through the cracked lid to my crock-pot, pink and crumbling. I've been standing in this shower, surrounded by walls of plastic and tile, water cascading over sunken shoulders. The weight is immense, circling like a vulture over a rotted carcass. I slide down the mildew infested tile onto a dingy floor of the bathtub. There's a perpetual ring of hair and dirt browning the walls of the tub. I stare into the nothingness of the tiles, looking through them into the room beyond. Water pours in translucent lines down, over mounds of flesh, swimming in creeks down into a triangle of pubis. Ah, the comfort of water. Sanctity. Clarity.

Friday, April 22, 2011