Honeymoon, courtesy of Laura's father. He sent a big cheque to the wedding, yet never showed himself. And he doesn't even know about the baby.
Must I do good deeds on my honeymoon? Unless the moon is made of honey, I'm not gonna! Hotel balcony. Reach for the moon. Tastes like a stale Corn Pop. Y'know, the breakfast cereal?
It was a very big cheque. Part of it paid for that Wesley Snipes impressionist to accompany us. He was a little reluctant, said something about Blade On Broadway performances. I think he's full of it. Doesn't even look that much like Wesley on Wednesdays. And this has been a week of Wednesdays.
I don't even remember what country we're in. All I know is that there's a hotel as large as her expectations. She's on the pill now. I mean, the other pill. Not the morning-after pill. Which, Laura didn't know, is to be taken the morning after. Apparently tooth models don't need high IQs. I'll keep that in mind if I ever want a career change. I mean... if I ever want a career.
She leans back on the bed. Champagne bubbles in her glass, and in her veins. That's what she is. Bubbly. Colbie Caillat. It's playing on her portable stereo. Oh, I hate that song. It doesn't start in your toes, it starts in your 'nads you stupid diva!
We've cashed the cheque. More than enough for this tropical journey. It's sweltering hot. Just like hell is supposed to be. But from what I remember, limbo was any temperature I imagined it to be. And it wasn't even a nightmare. So why am I back here?
She's spreading her legs. Putting the glass down. Calling to me. But it just wouldn't feel right. Now that she's a whore, I'd feel the need to pay her for her services.
And besides. It's getting hot in here. And not in any sexual way.
I slam the door behind me, and run to the stairwell. Soon enough, out on the streetside. And there, in front of the hotel. Netting up her legs. Leather skirt. A blouse two sizes too small. Glands of silicone. Hair bleached to blond. I take a bill from my pocket, and so it begins.
However, I prefer whores that I've paid for. This is another man's money. But nevertheless, we enter the hotel.
That's what honeymoons are for, right?
Laura's crying in the bathroom. So, we have the bed all to ourselves.
This woman is paper thin. Like, I think I remember her. It was a lipstick ad. The kind that isn't supposed to smudge on anything. I cut her out some time before I cut out Laura. And now she's a real person too. And according to Hollywood, she had a heart of gold. I'm not so sure. But we continue our rendezvous.
The ad lied. There's a red smudge upon my pubic stubble now.
And all I hear is Laura sobbing. The sound turns me on. Not knowing that she's there, but knowing that she's in pain. And not the kind of pain I'm feeling. Not the kind that the mind interprets as pleasure in moments like this. Her heart is breaking. Sobbing.
She runs out of the room, into the hall. There's a trail of tears behind her. They fall to the floor as cold-hearted snowflakes. And she, too, slams the door.
But there were no man whores on that streetside. Other than me.
I smile. She's locked out now.
WHAT THE FUCK!? Oh, fuuuuck!
I consider this my first good deed.
The fire alarm is going off. Yeah, I thought her touch was fire. For a moment, I'm sure, I could see smoke rising from between us. And we keep at it. We'll burn with the building if we must.
And then the fireman's axe breaks through the door. She's swinging it at the door, cutting her way into the room.
I catch something in her eyes I've not seen in a long time. Desire. She's cut her way in, and now she's coming for us.
The bed is bouncing. I'm groaning. The whore is moaning.
She must have smashed the glass panel in the hallway, and taken the axe. Her fists are bleeding. But as Laura approaches, she never puts down the hefty axe. And I realize, now, that desire has become contempt.
She's Clytemnestra of old, ready to kill her beloved king.
This is why I prefer whores I've paid for.