It is vexing how one guy's life can go on such a different turn when his girlfriend leaves him.
Thick, pink lips fade seamlessly into her china doll skin. Chestnut curls cascade down her chest, stopping just above small nipples of C cup breasts pressing gently out of her lime corset. Her slender arms cross over the bar as she slouches slightly,
sipping her fizzing drink.
She notices me staring.With lips still resting on her straw, her brown eyes peer up in my direction.They widen slightly; a heavenly sight. Her lips release from the straw, and she turns her head toward me, playing with the ends of her hair. Her face proves her profile unworthy. Her eyes, rimmed slightly with black eyeliner, slant downward,revealing an Asian ancestry. The edge of her pink lips curl into a suggestive grin, urging me forward. I place an elbow on the bar and lean towards her flawless face. I align our eyes and mirror her grin, breathing in her citrus
“Are you alone?”
Light questions and heavy drinks bring her to my bed, stumbly and droopy-eyed. She lies dreamy and drunk in my sheets, tits stiff as bones, legs moist and
tasteless. I make love to her swift and firm, slick and silk, swimming in
whiskey. She squeals, squeezes, squirts without coming. It's over before it
starts. She sleeps when it's over, and I stare from across the room, cig in
hand, the chair's metal cold against against my buttcheeks. I take another puff
before the clock strikes three and wake her up.
It's time to leave, and her disheveled figure smiles at me in the doorway.
“That was really great,” she says, the roar of the city behind her rustled fro, “let's do it again sometime.”
The make-up smudge on her eye stops my “Sure,” and the faint nod I give her sends her on her way.
I shut my door, and nakedly climb the stairs and into bed, void of soils and
poison for the night.
Her name was Katherine and I told her I would dedicate whole planets to her. Countless compliments, shiny gifts, and cheek kisses were my regiment, her smiles my intentions. In the night I held her close to me, clutched tight like leather,
whispering in her ear sweet somethings.
“You're a pretty fucking amazing girl, you know that?”
“You're too nice for your own good.”
She was a girl of whimsical experiment. Boots with bra-strap laces, skirts from plastic-wrap, and necklaces made from the arms of Barbies decorated our closet like ornaments, rustic and innocent.
It was always the smell of pancakes, bacon-wrapped franks, and the sound of grunge with her in the morning. From our bedroom doorway I'd admire her cooking uniform: homey red hair pulled back into a ponytail, a t-shirt that
garbagebagged her slim figure, a content smile beneath her blue eyes. I remembered it was all too pleasant. Like youthful virgins we loved too much to
She'd been gone four weeks. Her dad didn't seem to want to die from cancer fast enough. When she added another three, I went to the bar pissed to get pissed. Whiskey Bourbon Shot Glass. Bourbon Beer Shot Glass. Shot Bottle Glass Whiskey Bourbon. Got real pissed. José walked up somewhere between another round and a third bottle.
The first time was in the stall with the broken door, armed with deep grunts, Bud breath, and moist chest hair. The second in a hostel on Georgestreet. The third at our place.
Times turned to weeks. We'd lie on the floor and sing The Flamingos off-key, his rock rough baritone filling the room like cigarette smoke, addictive as nicotine. The nights brought groaning, moaning, and grimy release, delightful in its rawness. I thought nothing of women, only of testosterone, camaraderie, and the itching of my balls. It was all too pleasant.
She found us cross-legged and naked under the sheets, filthy and laughing, her mouth agape in a silent scream.
José let the sheet fall as he stood. Offensively naked and eyes gaping, he put a hand on his hip, his accent thick and brazen.
“What's the matter, mami? Never seen two fags kiss before?”
I lie on the couch buzzed on Jack and stale memories. I've grown content with the aroma of Katherine's perfume, long suffocated by the muggy stench of damp bodies and moldy fruit. I've learned to like the cold stove, the empty seat, the braless dresser. José's black leather jacket tops the dirty laundry in the corner,
lonely and deserted, begging for attention.
It holds tight to me against the swift bite of the night, my breaths in line with its squeaks. “In a Sentimental Mood” pulls me into the nearest bar, and I feel the
lingering drops of alcohol go from my head to my eyes. The blur relaxes me,
shutting out images of toxic men and betrayed women. There is an ache for
release; the urge for sex and the smell of perfume. I move further into the
dark hall, arms clutched to black leather, eyes on a woman in a green corset.