Ben Newell

The Morning After

The amnesia was all too familiar. 

I remembered drinking with Todd at a downtown dive bar. Then nothing. Nada. Blank. Zip. Still, I could fit the pieces together. The narrative wasn’t hard to construct. After all, I hadn’t gotten home all by myself. Somebody had returned me to my apartment and tucked me in all nice and tidy. 

Todd. 

A real gentleman. 

It was enough to make me sick. Which I already was, although not so severe that I couldn’t climb out of bed and pad to the bathroom in my stockinged feet. The thoughtful bastard had even removed my shoes before covering me with a blanket. 

Shedding my blouse and miniskirt, I took a long shower and mentally reviewed last night’s failure. No doubt Todd had searched my billfold to ascertain my address. He had driven me home, using my key to unlock the door, and carried me to bed. 

Chivalric prick. 

Of course, he wasn’t the first. I had been treated like a princess before. Granted, Todd was the first to actually enter my apartment. Most guys called me a cab at the bar, others an ambulance. A few had actually driven me to the emergency room. 

Unfortunately, this was the norm. Believe it or not, most folks are decent people. 

I got out of the shower, toweled dry, and put on some comfy sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. I fixed myself a cup of coffee and a bowl of instant oatmeal. Half the day was shot. I had slept through it all, slumbering like the dead. Not that it mattered. It was Sunday. I had nothing to do, nowhere to go.

Curled up on the sofa, I finished the oatmeal and nursed my second cup of coffee. Familiar street sounds came through the open window of my second-floor studio. Most people would have found them comforting. I found them loathsome. Last night’s dud date had put me in a foul mood. 

I was losing faith in men. 

The city was full of hipster pussies and woke faggots. Momma’s boys, every last one. Effete do-gooders. Scumbags were getting harder and harder to find. It had been months since my last successful hookup. 

Gene. 

A real degenerate. 

I had regained consciousness the following morning behind a dumpster in a trash-strewn alley, my skirt hiked above my hips, my back bruised and bloody from him pounding me against a cement wall. Used. Abused. I was long overdue for another Gene. 

A man who wouldn’t freak out when I started to fade, a man who knew how to take full advantage of the situation, a man more than capable of sealing the deal . . . 

I was contemplating a third cup of coffee when my phone vibrated. Todd. Fucking great. I had hoped it would be my dealer. My supply was getting low. Todd was checking on me. How touching. I visualized him crossing the threshold of my bedroom, carrying me like a young groom with his chaste bride. 

“Give it up.” I frowned at my device. “You’re not my type.” 

The whole thing was terribly confusing. 

I wondered why he—and the others who had failed to measure up—had even messaged me in the first place. My profile on the dating app should have made my sexual aberration abundantly clear. I was nothing if not transparent. Starting with my screen name . . . 

Mickey Finn.