The Waitress and the Snake

Dawn. Sitting down to breakfast at The Happy Diner for the first time, eating greasy eggs and ham. As usual, I am alone and slightly high. I don’t know why I mix cannabis and caffeine. I get jumpy and my thoughts turn sour. On the other hand, I haven’t had a drink in over a year, thanks to coffee, weed and cigarettes. Technically I’m not sober, yet I am. Ativan helps too. I drop acid on the weekends just to flush out the Jung.

My waitress (nametag: Bernice) looks haggard and worn, but there’s beauty there too. She looks like Charlotte Rampling after a near-toxic bender. I know just from looking at her that she’s dealing with a bad hangover. Drunk sick. Serious soaks can recognize each other. It’s a psychic bond among lushes. I’ve seen the world through the look in her eyes. I can tell reality is hurting her right now. Her service suffers (I have to hunt her down for the check after thirty missing minutes) but I try to be polite and nice and when I leave, I leave behind a generous tip (25%). I want to give her encouraging words. I wish I could slip her a nip to help get her through the misery of her shift. I have dealt with the same agony she’s dealing with countless times. My compassion is hard won. But she’s tough. She’ll make it through. Not all of us do.

I walk home silently reciting a prayer to protect me from the passing cars. There is no sidewalk. I’m on the street, risking my life for a shitty breakfast.

The litter on the side of the street reminds me of my dissipated history: empty nips, beer cans, cigarette butts. I used to drink and drive like a pastime. Just cruising and listening to sad songs on the radio. I finally lost my license and I don’t want it back.

Halfway to my apartment I am confronted by a dead snake. It is a marvelous specimen. It’s a black rat snake (pantherophis obsoletus), big. It had been a powerful predator but it will slither no more. And then I’m struck by an idea. I crouch down and insert the tail into its mouth, making a loop like it’s eating itself. Like an ouroboros. The next person will come upon it and wonder. Maybe the waitress will find it. Maybe it’ll inspire something. I head home.

***

From: Everything Dissolves

And That is How I Was Reincarnated As a Unicorn

I finally discovered
the end of the rainbow.

I fastened it around my neck
and coaxed the leprechaun
into my chocolate starfish,
creating the perfect storm
of anal rampage and
erotic asphyxiation.

I masturbated
with such rapid force,
the skin from my penis
rubbed off in my hands.
This new element of pain
sent my pleasure sensors
into hyperdrive.

I ventured into a realm
incomprehensible
to mere mortals.
My eyeballs froze and
shattered like ice and
blood spat from my ears.

I reached an orgasm so massive
I spontaneously combusted.
Pink mist and ejaculate
coated the clouds.

Bastards and Bullshit

The flaws were evident the last time you’d laid out the blue-prints; your numbers won’t change, no matter your rage, your infrastructure had no structure at all, it was crumbling over everyone, showers of proverbial concrete. It was the whipping pole of the meek when the metal meets the meat, and these bricks won’t fucking eat themselves.

The ravens watched as the systems fell apart, talon scratches where they were perched. People were feeling cheated and ass-fucked; nobody wants the goddamn continental breakfast anymore, they want frittatas and they’re willing to kill for the taste of parmesan. Your gears were misaligned and the bolts holding them were cheap, third rate, and cost effective. The whole clusterfuck of bad decisions eventually came to its fruition and took half the city with it; the ravens glided overhead blinded by the shock wave of dust and industry that burst out of your war machine as it imploded on itself.

How do you expect to keep the people subdued; there’s pitch-forks and shovels rising in a dense mist of words like revolution, insurrection and revenge. You’re exposed and weakened; we’ve got the angry masses ready to butcher whoever winds up on the business end of their tomahawks. The ravens watch the macabre massacre; unable to tell the story of the world and how it cleaned itself of all the bastards and their bullshit.

Totem

After they’d fucked, Eugene drank in the experience with all his senses by wallowing in the damp patch, swaddling himself in the sweaty sheets. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Shelly strapped on her bra, collected the money from the nightstand and stuffed it into her purse.

“Hey,” he said, “let me take you to dinner. I want to treat you like the queen that you are.”

“Mister, you know the rules,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Fuck the rules, we belong together. You just took my virginity; we have a special bond now. In fact, come to Bali with me. I’ll buy the tickets now. We can make love on the beach, drink cocktails from coconuts, leave this world behind.”

“You’re sweet but please, be realistic.”

“I am being realistic, you’re the love of my life. I’ve never felt this way before.”

“Promise me, the first girl you shag in real life? Don’t marry her. You’re a sweet guy, don’t sell yourself short.”

And with that, she tramped out of his room, adjusting her G-string as she made her exit.

“Shelly!” Eugene called after her.

But she was already gone.

Eugene thought about her all day at work. He was twenty-seven and a successful lawyer. He had the odd fair-weather friend, but love had always eluded him. Now he’d been hit by the thunderbolt. However, he wondered if he could ever defile Shelly again – she was just too perfect. But he couldn’t resist visualising the sweat dripping over her porcelain skin – slowly down her neck and onto her pendulous breasts. No, he had to see her again and have her once more. After just one taste, he’d become addicted to her moist lips and creamy thighs. Clocking off from his job in the city, he decided to pay a visit to Shelly’s massage parlour in Soho, after first shovelling down a heavy Chinese buffet followed by several pints of cider.

As he entered the parlour there were a few men seated in the waiting room, perusing hardcore porno magazines, glazed expressions on their faces. Eugene approached the reception desk, occupied by a middle-aged woman wearing varifocal lenses. Eugene asked for Shelly.

“Sorry,” she said, “she’s busy. But…”

“I’ll wait,” Eugene interrupted.

“…we have many other beautiful young ladies for your delectation. Here are some photos.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll wait for Shelly.”

Eugene squeezed himself in between two of the other customers. One of them, with a pencil thin moustache and a cravat, leaned in conspiratorially and whispered in Eugene’s ear, “Shelly’s really something else, isn’t she?”

“What?” Eugene said, “What did you just say? Who the fuck are you?”

Shelly’s pimp overheard the conversation and, wanting to avoid any drama, appeared at his office door and motioned for Eugene to join him.

Inside his office, the pimp leaned back in his swivel chair, reached for a chewed-on cigar, and said, “I hear Shelly has made quite an impression on you.”

“I guess,” Eugene said, all cagey, wringing his hands.

“Listen, it’s fantastic you like her so much, it’s what we’re here for. However, we encourage our clients to spread the love around and not get too attached to any one of our girls. We’ve had problems in the past with some, let’s call them, insane clients, you see.”

The pimp smiled devilishly, his teeth all jutting out at random angles.

“Hmm,” Eugene said, “you’re her pimp, right?”

“You could call it that.”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you, because the thing is, I want Shelly.”

“I understand, I do.”

“I mean, I want her to be all mine. Forever.”

“Oh. Well, now…”

“Hear me out. I can make it worth your while, I have plenty of money and I’m willing to splash the cash. I’ll treat her right, I promise. The truth is, I’m in love with her and I want to marry her.”

“Well, Eugene, your experience is quite common. Shelly is a lovely girl. All our girls are lovely, however. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I just can’t give you what you want. Simply no way. How about this, why don’t you try Jasmine, seeing as Shelly is otherwise occupied? Give her a test run tonight, and I promise your obsession with Shelly will be cured by sunrise.”

“I don’t need a cure. I don’t want a cure.”

The pimp sighed and said, “Let me do you a deal. Have Jasmine tonight and I’ll fix you up with Shelly tomorrow. Then we’ll see how to proceed at a later date.”

“I think I’ll pass and just see Shelly tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you at least meet Jasmine and see how it goes? You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You don’t even have to do anything; it will be a way of passing the time until you see Shelly again. Trust me, I know about these things.”

“Well, I guess it can’t do any harm. Just this once, mind, seeing as I have nothing else to do. Because I warn you, I won’t give up on my Shelly, she’s burnt into my soul. Do you have a picture of this Jasmine?”

“Of course,” said the pimp, flicking through a laminated sex menu and then sliding it over. The page was labelled “Jasmine the Exotic Girl of your Dreams”. Despite the elaborate lighting and a loose red slip draped over her body, Eugene could tell she was pretty much anorexic.

“She’s lost a lot of weight recently,” the pimp said, “used to be over two hundred pounds. Some guys go for that, other guys go for the opposite. Either way she’s a real firecracker. You like her?”

Eugene analysed the photo, squinting.

“Yes, yes, I think I do.”

Jasmine’s room was located on the third floor of the massage parlour, and he was welcomed by the scent of strawberry lube and cinnamon incense as he entered. Jasmine was seated in an armchair in the corner of the room wearing a satin dressing gown with her crossed legs exposed. There were the soft sounds of whale song playing from the Echo Dot.

Eugene took a seat on the bed and played with his pocket pen knife.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here, my heart belongs to another.”

“Relax, I don’t want your heart. I’m just here to show you a good time.”

“It feels wrong.”

“We can talk for a bit if that makes you more comfortable?”

“I’m in love with a girl who works here, Shelly.”

“Ah, Shelly,” she said, “popular girl.”

Jasmine stood and slid her gown off, stepping out of it as she approached Eugene. The light hit her in such a way the loose skin hanging from her belly was revealed.

“Let me take your mind off her…”

She straddled him, loosened his tie and unhooked her bra. Her tits were somehow floppy and shrivelled at the same time.

After a period of fumbling around, Eugene finally said, “Stop. I’m sorry, but I can’t get it up. This wouldn’t happen with Shelly. I don’t know how I could have betrayed her.”

Jasmine rolled off Eugene and wrapped herself back up in her gown.

“What the fuck is the deal with Shelly, anyway, huh? I mean what’s she got that I haven’t?”

“Well, she’s just so beautiful and kind and gentle. She’s just the perfect girl.”

“Really.”

“Yes, and I feel we’re made for each other, you know? Soulmates.”

“Right. I get it, I get it, you’re hooked. What do I care? I didn’t lose all the weight for your approval. I’m sure you’re eager to see her as soon as possible, then.”

“Of course.”

“I think I can help you, because if you love her so much, it’s only reasonable I tell you where she is right now.”

“Would you?” Eugene said, unable to contain his excitement.

Eugene followed Jasmine’s directions to a run-down motel on the edge of town and booked himself into a room. He didn’t have a plan and decided to let instinct guide him, knowing the love between him and Shelly could not be denied.

It wasn’t long before Eugene picked up on the loud moaning sounds, which seemed to be coming from several doors down. With some sense of trepidation, he went off to investigate, following the noise as it grew in intensity.

Creeping along the balcony, he finally arrived at its source.

“Oh, Shelly!” a man’s voice called out.

Eugene peeked through the gap in the curtain. Two men were kneeling opposite each other on the bed – old men with turkey necks and balls hanging low, slapping back and forth as they both laid into the woman on all fours in between them. It was hard to make out in the dimness of the light, but one of them had something tattooed upon his wrinkled, saggy ass.

…S
…H
…E

…Shelly?

Despite all evidence that this was in fact his Shelly, Eugene had still yet to see her face. Maybe there was still hope that it wasn’t her in there. Maybe it was just some other whore who also happened to be named Shelly, presently getting shish-kebabed by a couple of geriatrics.

Several sustained groans later, the old men rose from the bed and staggered off into the shower together. It was only then that Eugene was able to verify the identity of his beloved, who was now busily wiping their loads off her face.

He bent over double and puked up his Chinese buffet right there on the spot, retching with brutish force.

“Hello?” Shelly called out. “Anyone there?”

She covered herself with a sheet as she rose to crack the door.

Eugene wiped his mouth and tried to compose himself before she could undo the chain. Slowly standing up straight, he was confronted by the sight of a horrified Shelly standing there before him.

“Shelly, we have to talk…”

Half an hour later, police sirens blared through the neighbouring streets as they advanced towards the motel. A smattering of customers loitered in the parking lot. They maintained a frosty silence and gawked at the old man sprawled upon his back, stomach gutted, innards unravelled in a bloody mess. Two policemen arrived on the scene and rushed to his side, one of them quickly reporting into his radio that he was dead. They reached for their batons and tasers and followed the entrails, leading them to the open door of the motel room.

The room was pitch black and the lead officer flicked on his torch, methodically sweeping it back and forth through the darkness. Quickly he zeroed in on a pair of bloodied feet upon the carpeted floor.

Moving the light up the man’s body, the officer gasped at the sight of his mangled crotch, before finally shining the beam upon his face. Stuffed in his mouth was his own cock and balls, blood and cum mingling in a gory pink froth as it dribbled down his chin.

The officer took a deep breath as he reached for the wall switch and flicked on the lights.

Eugene sat up from the blood-soaked mattress with a grisly smile upon his face. Beside him was Shelly, lying naked on her back. The girl had been completely decapitated.

“Hello officer…” Eugene said, holding her head on top of his like a totem pole.

“…have you met my fiancée yet?”

Skunked

Harvey Joel Drexler and his psilocybin-hyped mind weaved through impossibly intricate writhing patterns of swampy tangle. He was trekking into the very heart of the marsh. His crappy apartment was well behind him, his lousy job forgotten. He was on an inspired mission, determined to eat skunk cabbage and catch frogs. Harvey was 47 years old and every second of his life showed like tree rings on his collapsing face. This effort was necessary. The mushrooms in his gut prodded him onward with eager excitement. He felt sure he was on to something big. Something cosmic. He sought change. Mud sucked at his steps. Dragonflies sang. Cattails watched him with stoic surprise. Wisdom leaked from the trees.

The skunk cabbage plant has contractile roots. It reaches into the earth, tapping directly into the brain of the planet. That’s what Harvey was after. Direct communication. He wanted to talk to the moss. He wanted to get to the bottom of things. A small frog jumped away from his clumsy advance and he reached for it, losing his balance, landing with a scrambling splash into a stagnant pool. The septic smell of the water soaked into his clothes. He stripped them off and groped back to his feet, standing naked as a newborn in all that stinking, roiling green. This was the way it was supposed to be. It was ceremonial. A pilgrimage. Like something ordained by great green entities.

And then he spotted the skunk cabbage. It was right there. Now was the time.

Huge spreading leaves surrounded a spotted pod. The very heart of the matter. The soul of the swamp. He crouched by the plant. It regarded him like a stoned god. His mushroom-enhanced vision bled through tendrils, spilling chlorophyll-infused consciousness into the humid air. It was thrilling, mysterious stuff. He fell to his knees. The unpleasant stink of the plant was designed to keep predators at bay but he insisted on close proximity. He was not afraid. He looked at it. He breathed it. He tried to make a sound but his throat had closed and all he managed was a drool-drenched sputter. He wiped his numb lips with a muddy hand. The mushrooms guided him, speaking in slow, drawn-out bubbles of dark, narcotic thought. Images instead of words. He longed to decipher their language. Paramecia giggled in his pores. Were they laughing at his folly? He joined them, his breathy laughter rising up into the trees like errant balloons. He felt itchy but didn’t scratch. It was not uncomfortable. It was a divine itch.

He reached for the leaves with a shaking hand.

And then stopped. Oh shit, he didn’t want to hurt it. He’d heard recently that plants felt pain. They got distressed. Screamed. He didn’t want to torture the magnificent thing. He placed a trembling, gentle hand around the center pod, felt heat there. A tingling frequency reached up his arm and into his mind, spreading thick, oozing GREEN through his nervous system. His spine was an antenna, picking up a photosynthetic eukaryotic broadcast. But he still couldn’t decipher its language. It spoke with whispers of algae and the soothing patter of the warm rain that had suddenly commenced like a jeweled baptism, blessing Harvey, giving him permission. It was NOW!

And then, before he could stop himself, Harvey seized the heart of the plant in his fist and tore it out. The mushrooms demanded a ruthless act. It was time to merge.

The hushed tones of the plant broke into an ear-curdling scream and he closed his eyes as a verdant miasma rose up in his mind and he bit into the strong, foul-smelling pod like an apple. It crunched against his teeth and a holocaust of flavor filled his mouth and sinuses and lungs.

He felt like a serial killer; worse, a cannibal. The cabbage kept screaming while he chewed and swallowed, inhaling the fetid smell like a bad memory. He gasped and choked and tried to cough. His throat closed around the burning chunks of flesh. Oh god he couldn’t breathe. Sudden panic seized him and he punched his gut and tried to Heimlich himself, to no avail. His vision, which had been bright, phosphorescent green, darkened. He tried coughing again but it was no use; his throat was closed for business. His lungs struggled, strangling to death in his laboring chest and he toppled face down into the thick, emerald water.

The frog regarded him with wise, primordial eyes.

The skunk cabbage stopped screaming. It was done. Things were back in balance.

It took three days for the swamp to consume and incorporate Harvey Joel Drexler. A pack of Cub Scouts would discover his moss-crawled bones in the fall.

***

From: Everything Dissolves

The Blind Woman’s Legs

The blind woman’s legs were shapely and smooth and Matt seared the sight of them into his calendar brain. She was two tables distant at the bookstore café, reading Terence McKenna with her fingers. He’d slipped behind her spy-like and peeked over her shoulder to see what she was reading/feeling. Matt felt comfortable looking at her because she couldn’t see him back. She couldn’t judge him by his weight or his height or the bruises on his face. She had no idea he was staring at her legs, memorizing her in her short skirt and flowered blouse. She wore big blind-person shades, giving her face a delicacy that he admired. She was beautiful in general but hell, those gams. He thought, She should insure those sweet stems with Lloyd’s of London. But the point was she couldn’t see him unless she felt him. Felt his face. And what were the chances of that?

The German Shepherd at her feet was looking at him with a bite on its mind. Matt smiled, showing his teeth to the beast. He knew how dogs talk. You had to intimidate them. The dog didn’t move. It didn’t answer back. Good dog. Matt felt like he’d won an important contest.

And then he took a swallow of coffee and felt repulsive again. The coffee had gone cool while he was staring at the blind woman’s legs. He felt it unleash in his empty guts, reaching into his bowels like a cold endoscope. He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit the pathetic straight out of his soul. The circus in his head returned, filling him with a hurdygurdy&smellofpopcorn&sawdust&horsedroppings. He closed his eyes and lowered his head and tried to think of other things. Pleasant things. Maintain. Maintain. He’d have to regain his composure if he was going to talk to the blind woman.

And then he broke into a string of giggles at the absurdity of that ambition. The laughter bubbled out of him with volume and froth. It was too funny. Who did he think he was? He lifted his head and saw that several people were watching him laugh and blood rushed into his face. Even the blind woman “looked” up.

But he couldn’t stop laughing and the circus roared back. With effort, he squeezed the sounds off and took another quick swig of coffee. Swallowing nauseated him again. Why did he have to be so, so human? Why couldn’t he be, be suave like other guys? The light inside was way too bright.

The blind woman closed her Braille book and snapped her fingers and for a second Matt thought the snap was for him but the dog stood up and led the blind woman out of the store. She glided easily behind the dog. It knew where to go.

Matt looked at his coffee. So what now? He felt like he’d had an experience. He was suddenly exhausted.

He picked up his cup and made it out of the store without incident.

 

From: Everything Dissolves

A Letter to the Editor

My co-worker Francine (not her real name) always sent so many mixed signals.

Though a confirmed metrosexual, I consider myself straight. I try to dress well, work out, use hair- and skin-care products. Many women at work pay compliments, but Francine went further. She winked, sometimes even “copped a feel” of my suits and ties. She asked for fashion tips, and we used to go on lunch-hour shopping safaris together.

Francine’s older than I am. She’s married, but that wouldn’t stop some guys I know.

When Francine said, “Let’s meet in Conference Room A”, which was unoccupied at the time, I thought we were about to cross a line. We did, but the line we crossed was unexpected.

She whispered that the Boss had asked to see her in his office, and she needed to be sure she looked “correct”. Be brutal, she said, like on TV. Disappointed, I said she looked fine. She hiked her skirt, unbuttoned her blouse.

“Think this is too much?”

Maybe I shook my head.

She pulled off her shoes. “Do my feet smell?”

She sat on the conference table, raised her legs, and put her feet in my face. I said they smelled fine.

She gave me a peck on the cheek. “Thanks. Wait for me after work.”

She went off to face The Boss. I stayed in the Conference Room to cool down. This took a while.

The thing is, Francine’s feet did smell.

The rest of the workday was a total loss.

Francine waltzed into my cubicle after the whistle blew. “It worked!” she said. “I made vice-president. Thanks for giving me the confidence. Let’s have a drink to celebrate. My treat.”

At the bar, Francine put her hand on my knee, practically licked my ear, gave what I thought were significant looks. After a few martinis, I blurted out, “Why don’t we go to a motel or something?”

She looked at me as though I’d vomited.

“With you? But you’re a…”

For some reason, I confessed what’d gotten me so hot about her.

“Oh my god that’s so disgusting,” she said. “And now I gotta worry about foot odor on top of it.”

All I could do was pray that the stuffed shark hanging above our booth would fall on my head and kill me.

Francine said she wouldn’t pay for drinks after all. Instead, she was going to tell her husband what I’d said about her. He’s a pro wrestler or a bodyguard or something like that.

At least he won’t send mixed signals.

Tigress

Jeffrey felt the cool breeze coming through the window and tried not to think of Karen. It had been over three months since they broke up, but Jeffrey could not get over her. He let out a long sigh and got up from the chair where he had been sitting for over an hour reminiscing about Karen. The adjacent table had several empty beer cans and discarded cigarette butts. He needed to get out of the house, he thought to himself.

He rose quickly from the chair, grabbed his car keys, then exited his apartment. A couple of his neighbors were sitting outside enjoying the cooler temperature. He waved to them as he headed down the flight of stairs to his car. His dilapidated Honda Civic sat in the parking lot among other vehicles that were in various stages of decay. He got inside and sat for a minute trying to figure out where to go. The Strip would be a great place to drown out his problems and disappear into the hordes of tourists, but he wanted somewhere a little bit quieter. Fremont was the better alternative, he thought to himself. He stated the car, pulled out into the street, and headed to the freeway.

He saw a car swerving left and right as he tried to merge into the freeway. Over the years, Vegas had become overwhelmed with drunk drivers that were both locals and tourists. He had to admit to himself that there were many times he drove drunk on the roads. He moved cautiously past the wayward car.

He drove until he got to Fremont then headed to the Plaza Hotel and Casino. There were several people standing around with drinks in hand chatting near the entrance. He parked the car then walked towards the entrance where a group of tourists drank from a plastic guitar filled with liquor. One of the men in the group stumbled and leaned against the wall as his friends laughed at him.

He headed inside and went straight to the bar. The noise of the slot machines and people talking enveloped him and he felt his spirits rise. There were several elderly couples at the bar drinking and playing Keno. He noticed an Asian woman sitting at the end of the bar alone. She caught his eye and gave him a small smile. He smiled back and asked the bartender for a Budlight and a shot of Patron. He quickly drank the shot and looked at the TV screens above the bar where a variety of sports games were playing. There were a couple of people who were totally absorbed in a football game and would remark on each team’s past games.

“What do you mean? We just got here!” An old man sitting a barstool away from Jeffrey exclaimed to a woman next to him.

“I’m tired. We have been walking all day,” his wife replied.

“Come on, we have one more day here before we head back. I don’t want to spend it in the hotel room,” he replied as he took a drink from a glass.

“I’m not going to sit here and watch you drink. I can do that at home.” She retorted as she stood up.

“Fine, go. I’ll be in later,” The man said without looking at his wife. She gave him an angry look and then walked off.

“Goddamn bitch”, the man mumbled as he turned to look at the football game.

Jeffrey looked down at his drink in amusement. He ordered another drink and saw the pretty Asian girl still sitting alone at the end of the bar. She looked to be a Filipina with long brown hair, small nose and lips. She had a distinctive mole on the left side of her neck. She was wearing a black dress that fitted her slim physique perfectly.

He wondered if she was here alone or if she was waiting for someone. She looked up from her drink and caught him looking at her. He quickly averted his eyes and looked at the television for a few seconds then slowly glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. She was looking at him with a smile on her face. Jeffrey smiled back casually. She got up and headed towards him with her drink. Jeffrey instantly felt nervous. He had never had a woman approach him before.

“Hi,” she said as she sat down on the barstool next to him.

“Hi.”

“Are you by yourself?” she asked him.

“Yeah, you?”

She nodded in reply.

“I’m surprised. A pretty lady like you by yourself,” He said with a flirtatious smile.

“Thank you.”

“I’m Jeffrey.” He said as he extended his hand towards her.

“Mika,” she said as she shook his hand. “Are you from here?” she asked him.

“Yeah, born and raised. How about you?”

She shook her head. “I was born in Guam and came here about two years ago.”

“Have you been back to Guam?”

“Nope, I don’t think I will ever go back. There’s nothing there for me,” she said nonchalantly. “You live close to here?”

“North Vegas. How about you?”

“I live a few blocks away from here. You want to get out of here?” she asked him.

He was surprised. “Yeah, sure,” He stated then finished his beer. He paid his tab and they started walking to the front entrance. “Did you drive?” he asked her.

“No, I walked over. I enjoy walking at night.”

They exited the casino and walked into the lot. Jeffrey unlocked his car and got in.

“Where to?”

“I’ll direct you,” Mika said as she buckled her seatbelt.

“Ok cool,” Jeffrey said in excitement. He followed her directions and pulled up in front of an apartment complex. He pulled into an empty space and they got out of the car and headed up the stairs. She pulled out a key and opened a door on the third floor landing. She stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

Mika took off her shoes and headed into the kitchen. “You want a drink?” she asked him. “Sure,” he said as he looked around her apartment.

There were framed black and white photos of cities from around the world covering the living room wall. A tan couch and love seat were placed adjacent to each other with a glass coffee table between them. A large plasma sceen TV was mounted to the opposite wall.

Mika grabbed a bottle of wine and wineglasses from a cupboard, placing them on the marble countertop between them.

“Your place is very nice,” Jeffrey said as he walked into the kitchen. She poured the wine into the glasses and handed Jeffrey a glass.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re very welcome,” she said with a smile.

“You live here by yourself?” he asked as he glanced around.

“Yup.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a masseuse. What about you?”

“I’m a security guard at a casino.”

“Really? You are so skinny for a security guard.”

He laughed. “Don’t be fooled by my appearance. I’m quite tough.”

She laughed and leaned into him. Jeffrey pulled her towards him and kissed her. She pressed against him and pulled his head down to hers, her tongue darting in and out of his mouth. She held his head in her hands. When she bit his lower lip, Jeffrey cried out in pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she pulled back.

“It’s ok,” he said with a laugh.

“Let me take a look at it,” she said. She bent his lip forward gently to which he winced.

“It’s bleeding a little. I’m sorry. Let me clean it up for you.” She licked the blood from his hurt lip. Jeffrey looked at her in surprise as she sucked on his lip.

“All better now?” she asked him with a sly grin.

“Yeah,” Jeffrey said. For some reason he felt himself getting aroused by what she’d just done.

“Come on,” she told him. She grabbed his hand and led him to her bedroom. There was a queen-sized bed placed near a window with red drapes. Clothes were scattered all over the floor and Jeffrey could see lots of lingerie and high heeled shoes tossed haphazardly in the room. She pushed him on the bed and started to take off his clothes. Jeffrey ran his hands up and down her body in anticipation. He pulled off her dress to reveal a slim tan body. She pulled off her bra and panties and mounted him. She started to kiss his chest and Jeffrey closed his eyes in pleasure.

“Ow!” he cried as she bit him just below his nipple.

“Sorry, I like to bite. Is it too much for you?” she asked him.

“It’s ok, but not too hard,” he said.

“Ok, I’ll be gentle,” she replied with that same sly smile on her face. She went back to kissing him and Jeffrey ran his hands through her hair. She bit him again on his abdomen but this time more gently. As they had sex, she bit him frequently and even drew blood many times to which she licked it up. Jeffrey found this quite arousing and started to relish the quick sharp pain from her teeth.

After they were both spent, Mika brought the wine and wineglasses into the room and they drank and talked before Jeffrey had to go to work. Mika gave him her number and told him that they can meet at her place the following night after 10pm when he was done with work. He excitedly told her he would be there.

When he got home and went into the bathroom to shower, Jeffrey saw the bite marks all over his body. He was surprised at how deep some of the bites appeared and how many there werre. He chuckled to himself in amusement before turning in for the night.

The following day, Jeffrey spent his entire shift thinking about Mika as he answered customer questions and watched drunks lose their money. As soon as he clocked out, he went quickly home and changed. He gave Mika a call to let her know he was on his way. When he arrived at her place, Mika answered the door wearing a short black skirt and wifebeater. There was a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of wine on the table.

“How was your day?” She asked him as they sat on the couch eating.

“It was good. Nothing ever exciting happens at work. How about you?” He asked her.

“It was fine. Not too busy.” She said. She took a drink from her wineglass then mounted him as he was eating. Jeffrey laughed in surprise.

“Wait, let me put this down.” He set the sandwich on the coffee table.

“Sorry, I’ve been waiting all day for this,” she said as she kissed his neck. Jeffrey grabbed her ass and started squeezing it. She started to nibble at his neck and then the familiar sharp pain hit Jeffrey. He did not cry out but moaned instead. They headed into the bedroom where they had sex, this time with her biting him more forcibly than before. The pain was sharper and more intense.

“Does it hurt too much?” she asked as she felt him tense up.

“No, its fine,” he said as he welcomed the pain.

They began to see each other every day for two weeks with Mika’s bites becoming more and more sharper and pronounced on Jeffrey’s skin. By this point, his body had become completely covered in bite marks. He enjoyed the pain and wanted to feel it as often as possible. He was very curious about what made her want to bite people and lick their blood, so he decided to ask her one night.

She was lying beside him with her head on his chest. “Whatever got you into biting people?” he asked.

“I had a boyfriend years ago who asked me to bite him, and at first I was turned off by it, but then I started to enjoy it as I saw how much he liked it.”

“Do you bite every guy that you have sex with?” he asked her.

“Yeah if they like it,” she said as she kissed his chest. “You seem to enjoy it. I love how your face gets as I bite you.”

“It does feel great, but man my body looks ravaged from all the bites.”

“Do you want to experience deeper bites? I promise you will feel so much pleasure that you will cum just from me biting you alone.”

Jeffrey laughed. “Really? That has happened before?”

“Yeah, one of my ex’s came for like a minute after I bit him. You wanna try it?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said cautiously.

“Don’t worry, it will hurt a lot, but I promise it is so worth the pleasure.”

She got up and went to a drawer near the bed.

“What are you getting?” he asked her as she rummaged around, coming out with a black square box.

“This,” she said as she pulled out a set of sharp metal teeth from the box. Jeffrey sat up in alarm as she fit them into her mouth.

“You are going to bite me with those?” Jeffrey practically shrieked.

“Yeah, I know it looks scary,” Mika said, her voice garbled through the teeth, “but they will make you feel so good…”

“Actually, I’m okay,” Jeffrey said with a laugh. “I don’t need any more bites for tonight.”

“Come on, don’t be scared,” she said. “It will be the best sensation you have ever experienced.”

“No thanks. I’m fine.” Jeffrey said with finality.

“Come on,” Mika said as she slid towards him.

“No,” Jeffrey said as he got up and out of her way.

Mika laughed. Jeffrey laughed nervously while watching her intently. She lurched towards him and grabbed his arm. He yanked his arm away and dashed out of the room. She chased after him, laughing and attempting to grab him.

“Cut it out, Mika. This isn’t funny!” he shouted as he tried to avoid her, scurrying behind the couch.

“Don’t be scared,” she said with a sinister laugh. “It’ll be fun, I promise…”

She darted toward him, faster this time, but he pushed her out of the way and ran back into the bedroom to get his clothes. He grabbed his pants and shirt as Mika came running after him, laughing hysterically. They faced each other with Mika blocking the doorway.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jeffrey yelled.

She started making tiger noises as she tiptoed toward him, making as if to pounce.

“Stop playing around Mika! That’s enough!” Jeffrey shouted.

That’s when she made her move.

“Get away from me, you crazy bitch!”

He flung her aside and heard a loud crash from behind him as he raced out of the room, fumbling with his pants as he ran for the door. The sound of Mika’s insane laughter followed him as he swiftly exited the apartment.

He flew down the stairs with his pants half on and jumped into his car. Peeling off into the night, he could’ve sworn that he still heard her laughing behind him.

On-Call for Break-Up Sex

You’re the one she calls for break-up sex. If you knew who it was she keeps breaking up with, you’d buy him a drink, shake his hand, and say thank you. Whatever it is he’s doing means you get some of the angriest, most satisfying sex you’ve ever experienced. Maybe ever will experience. That’s worth a drink and a handshake.

Whatever bar you’re in, lingering over an after-work drink, she finds you. Summons you. You still don’t know her name. You just go.

The first time? You were catching that after-work drink. Something to smooth the way for the train ride home. That first time, she marched into the bar, didn’t bother taking off her coat. She looked familiar, despite the dim lights, like you knew her from somewhere. Maybe the bar here, though you had a twitchy feeling you’d seen her a number of times, but somewhere else. She didn’t bother asking if the stool next to you was taken. She yanked it out, wedged in close to the bar and pulled the stool under her. She took a moment to order. Like she wanted something nasty, so she didn’t lose the anger she felt. A single malt. Something burnt and smoky. The smokiest you got, she said. Bartender poured it up. Double it, she said. She took it, sniffed at it, then knocked it back. Given how pricey a drink like that is, you had to look over at her.

Scheisse, das ist gut, she said. Not like she spoke German, but like she’d learned that one phrase all by itself to pull out and use in places like this.

Then she turned to you. Do you fuck, she asked.

Only if money doesn’t work, you said. It’s all you could think to say. No one’s ever asked you that before.

What are you drinking, she asked. You were about to say gin in case she was going to buy you a round and turn this into a hookup. You didn’t want to deflate your pecker with anything too strong.

But she didn’t wait for you to say. She knocked back the rest of your drink, pulled two twenties from her wallet as she crunched the last of the ice, and set the empty glass on it. She gestured to the bartender so he noticed the cash, then said to you, come on.

She slid off the stool and headed for the door. She didn’t look back to see if you followed. Of course you followed. Do you fuck? Of course you do.

That first time, you walked behind her all the way to her apartment. She wouldn’t slow down enough to walk side-by-side. She would speed up if she felt you getting close. She made no small talk beyond telling you when to cross the street, where to watch your step for the broken concrete in the sidewalk, then to wait at the bottom of the steps up to the brownstone of her apartment—you guessed—while she unlocked the front door, then to come on, like you were dawdling. Which you did, like she was a schoolteacher and you were late handing in your homework. You didn’t want to seem overly anxious, like a kid looking forward to his first taste of pussy, or act too smug like you were some big shit lover—in case the alcohol or the nerves soft-boiled your hard-on. Which grew in your pants, of course, watching her power walking ahead of you the whole long way, knowing all that determination was for you.

Inside her apartment, you had no time to look around, check for any sign of a roommate. Or a boyfriend. Or a husband. Or whatever. She shucked her coat and dumped it on the floor just inside the doorway and headed for the living room, leaving you to close the door and put on the deadbolt. You left your own coat hanging on a doorknob. She was pulling off her top as she went, stopping just long enough to kick off her heels and step out of her skirt. She wasn’t wearing pantyhose or stockings. Just a black lace thong and a pale blue bra.

She grabbed the remote and turned on the television. While it powered up, she unhooked her bra and flung it at an easy chair where it landed cups upward. The thong followed, missing the chair and landing on the floor. If she planned to stream a little porn to get you going, you didn’t need it.

She punched the buttons on the remote, hard, and the channel changed to a couple of guys slugging and kicking and dancing around a ring. Ultimate fighting, it looked like. She stood a moment, as if making sure she was on the right channel.

You were confused. You didn’t think you’d been brought here to watch television. Nor were you invited to remove your own clothes. So you stood, waiting. Then she put down the remote and came to you. Again, no small talk, no foreplay, unless you counted her fumbling, furious fingers yanking at your belt and fly, stripping your clothes off, barely waiting for you to get your feet free of your trousers, then your underwear, before she was throwing them aside.

You were glad your pecker was at the ready. Not fully gorged but showing a keen interest in the proceedings. You hoped she took it as a compliment.

She placed one hand on your shoulder and with the other she grabbed your cock. She began tugging and twisting, like she knew a secret trick for unlocking your penis to get its whole length pulled free from your body. Which, kind of, she did, because now you were fully filled out, stiff, stretched. Her hands on you, a stranger’s hands, sent electric thrills down the shaft, the sizzle branching off down both legs all the way to your ankles.

She dragged a straight-backed chair from the dining table in the little alcove into the center of the room and spun it around so it faced away from the television. She moved you to the chair, leading you, almost like dancing as she watched your feet, guiding you sideways then pushing you back onto the chair.

She got down on her knees, and you knew she wouldn’t be down there long, since she didn’t have anything soft to save her kneecaps on that hard wood floor.

You had a pretty good idea what she would do next but you kept still, knees together, letting her know she was in charge. And you were right. She forced your knees apart with her elbows, all business, no ceremony, and began taking you deep, tonguing you, working up a mouthful of spit so the thick wetness of her saliva ran down to your balls. You gripped the chair seat under you and leaned back. The head of your cock was so sensitive you could feel the uvula at the back of her throat. Professional safecrackers work a lifetime for fingertips as sensitive. She slid down, wagging her head, like she had to work past her own gag reflex. Then on the last deep plunge you were convinced you’d reached her lungs and could feel her heart beating against the tip of your cock. Her esophagus constricted on you, and you knew for sure this is what it would feel like to be swallowed by a python, dick first.

She sat back on her heels, looked at your cock, then worked up a bit more spit and leaned over you, drizzling it on the tip of your pecker, a Sundae topping.

She got to her feet, straddled you, and guided you inside until she settled her butt onto the tops of your thighs. She leaned in, wrapping one arm around your shoulders, her head next to yours, in what you thought was a hug. You tilted your head slightly, touching ear-to-ear, and she jerked her head aside. She got back to working herself down on your pecker, like it didn’t fit right, so you put your hands on her hips, but she knocked your hands away, grunting something like, unh-unh. She went back to hugging you around the shoulders. She started again working it up and down, doing her best to keep your pecker inside her, without letting her ass touch the tops of your thighs. Her long legs helped. She was fierce, like she was trying to saw your pecker off, or pinch it off if she could squeeze hard enough. You realized she didn’t want her ass touching your thighs. You are the cock. You are the rescuer, saving her from drowning. She’s holding tight as you make for the shore. Your dick is not part of you. It’s a flotation device. It lives, and maybe she imagines it ripped from your body, like she would rip it from the body of the guy who made her so angry, but she can’t because there are laws against it, so she takes you, a stranger, and imagines it severed from your body.

That’s what it felt like.

You tried to say something friendly, to show appreciation for her as a person, thank her for her service, remind her there was an entire guy attached to the penis, in case this could lead to something more. But she growled, “shut up, shut up!” slamming her pelvis into yours with each syllable.

Then she reached for the television remote and raised the volume of the fight she was watching over your shoulder, drowning you out.

This was so not about you. All you could do was lean back and enjoy the ride, enjoy your job as the amorous salve on a wounded ego, the stiff syringe used to inject her with reassurance. Affirmation that she could still summon a penis from anywhere out of the darkness to simplify and satisfy the complexities of a busted relationship.

You knew you were close to bursting. You could twist aside on the upstroke, spew into the air, or you could go on being the disembodied dick and let fly. Instead, you started with a long, low guttural moan building to a pulsing grunt as the trembling nerves resonated with the alerts of impending ejaculation that rose from your ankles, shot up the insides of your legs, zipping to your cocktop.

She got the message, popped off, and reached between her legs to grab your cock. She thumbed you, making you shoot hard and long. Oh, sweet mother of Mercury rising, did you shoot, the contractions jerking your groin, rippling your belly.

You turned to glance at her, to smile, to look grateful, but she was still focused on the fight. Then; she twisted your cock, her hand dripping with your semen and exclaimed. Not at you, not at some orgasm of her own, but some disaster unfolding in the bout she was watching.

He punched him in the balls, she cried, pointing at the screen, he punched him in the balls!

Seeing the mess still on her outstretched hand, she scurried to the kitchen, holding out her hands, her fingers spread. She came back with wads of paper towels. She wiped off her hands while you wiped yourself down, your cock red and raw. You held the gooey toweling for a moment, in case she offered to take it from you and get rid of it someplace special. She didn’t so you left it in a dish on the end table.

She gathered up your clothes and handed them to you. She went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. Then the shower started.

Maybe this was her way of giving you time to get dressed and get lost.

You pulled on your underwear, smearing spots of the jizz you had missed with the paper towel.

The shower was still running when you left. You’d paused before going out, and you could see that she wasn’t in the shower. She had the bathroom door opened a crack to make sure you were leaving the apartment. You pretended not to see, patting yourself down, checking to be sure you had everything you came in with. Then you left.

It was about a week later you saw her in the lobby of the building where you worked. That’s where you’d seen her so many other times before. You didn’t try to make eye contact, but you were sure she saw you. You pretended not to notice, dropped your backpack on the floor and rustled around in it to give her time to get on the elevator so you could take the next one.

For the next few weeks you would see her occasionally, coming in, going out, getting something at the newsstand in the lobby. Each time, you’d find an excuse to avoid eye contact, waiting on her to go first, call out, maybe sidle up to you and give you a shoulder bump, just to connect. But she never did. Even sneaking a peek over at her, she didn’t seem to have noticed you. You were a dick without a face. Unless you took it out and waved it around, she probably wouldn’t recognize you.

Then a few weeks before Christmas, she tracked you down at another bar, near where you both worked.

This time she didn’t even ask. She knocked back your drink and put two twenties under the empty glass, with that same signal to the bartender to notice you were both leaving.

Back to her place. Still no small talk, no how you been, how’s the family, any plans for the holidays? Just swing the chair into the center of the room, turn on the Ultimate Fighting Championship matches, shuck your clothes, and get down to the serious business of fucking away her dismay at her latest breakup.

This time she set the chair facing the television. She got you good and wet, but this time she straddled you facing away so you both could see the screen. Maybe she thought you’d like to watch, too. Maybe she found it in a manual for good hostesses somewhere. Then you realized it was a lot more calculated. Watching two near-naked guys beat on each other was distracting and took a lot longer for you to shoot your load. You didn’t much care to watch the fight, preferring instead to watch the calves of her legs go wire-tight, the muscles in sharp definition as she worked to use the whole of your length while keeping her butt from touching down any more than necessary. You’d watch yourself sliding in and out of her, a small mouth working a big lollipop. It wouldn’t last and her muscles would give out. She’d let go when she got closer to her own orgasm, and would land in your lap, down hard on you, wet from her own juice and perspiration.

From this direction you could see how she would ride you to the ebb and flow of whichever fighter she’d chosen for her champion. She’d ride slowly, conserving her strength when her favorite took a beating, struggling to defend himself. She’d speed up as he fought back, drawing blood, getting the best of the other fighter. You had to play mind games with yourself if you wanted to last. You focused on the sweat trickling from under her short hair tied in a stubby ponytail at the back of her neck as she grunted with the kicks and the blows her favorite landed on his opponent. She worked at herself, first with her left hand, then with her right, then her left again. She wouldn’t let you touch her. Maybe you touching her would distract her from losing herself in a fantasy moment where she rode her favorite, solid muscle mass, ripped, with a buzz cut, tattooed arms and back, and it was her juice running down his crank, wetting his thighs, and spilling onto the chair seat under him.

Maybe that’s why guys broke up with her.

It didn’t matter to you. The slick tunnel was delicious.

Her moans got louder and louder, a car struggling up a steep hill, until she climaxed, barking sharply with each spasm of exertion. You hoped the neighbors would think it was all for the love of the sport, not a fresh murder being committed on the other side of their walls.

Again, you did her the courtesy of vocalizing your approaching climax, like, oh shit, oh shit, or, oh yeah oh yeah, or that’s it, that’s it, and she hopped up, took hold of you and thumbed your pecker until you shot your load. It was a thoughtful thing to do and you appreciated it. Her small, delicate hands were a sweet relief to your effort of holding it in until her favorite managed to bash his opponent to a standstill.

She would dismount and disappear into the bathroom, running the shower until you left. She never offered you a drink or a snack or a thank you. You were best used to purge herself and her body of whoever came before, as if she were trying to reset her muscle memory for a new cock to be named later and you were the software package used to roll her back to her factory settings.

You would like to know what she does for work, why she moved to the city, why, out of the blue, she chooses you for break-up sex while watching two guys beat each other up as she rides you. Is there a reason she doesn’t consider you sufficient for something that might last? Maybe nothing would last with her, and you would be discarded for break-up sex with someone else.

Maybe.

Still. Weeknights, you linger over that second drink after work to give her time to walk in, take your drink, and leave two twenties on the bar.