Es, pt. 1/?

Your face is flushed, your cheeks are tingling, and your legs are just this side of useless. The last bong rip set you coughing like some kind of amateur, but it has been a whole ten minutes since the last hit. This is just a nightcap after a night of running up your credit card with overpriced shots at an overwrought bar. You know it is cheaper to buy your own fifths, but you do not go out to drink cheap, though when they come free from across the way, you have seldom complained. Usually it is the typical drunk college bro spending daddy’s money taking a break from keg-stands and running off fake IDs. Now and again, right now actually, you find someone worth the time to get into a conversation. Someone with the right kind of low cut top and high cut skirt to draw your eye up, down, and out again. No ring, no ring-dent, not that it matters, but you do not need the drama, just a warm face to sit on.

What she lacks for in experience she seems to be making up with enthusiasm. The weed and scotch are making it difficult to feel much, while simultaneously making you feel exactly what you need. You grind, she groans, you grind, she groans. This goes on and on and finally, blessedly, you can let her come up for a breath. Her face glistens, her frost blue lipstick a halo around her lower jaw. You make a note to have a good scrub later. She reclines, slick face grinning, and spreads her pocked, black thighs, and you fall forward and forward and forward and your world is that of musk and sweat and an annoying stray hair caught in your buckteeth.

She is a vocal one, but that just serves to direct you where to go, what to press, what to pinch, slap, and bite. Her labia are huge, protruding outward like something out of an O’Keefe painting. You take the six gauge stainless steel rings that pierce through them both and clamp them between your teeth. You pull back, and she groans her appreciation. Opening your jaw, they snap back, spread wide and wanting for your attention. You pass the night this way, until she leaves a bit before dawn, her number on an old therapist appointment card on your bedside table. You might call later, but for now, you stumble into the shower, thighs weak from all the effort.

The water comes cold and you yelp, hopping back and away from the weak spray of tenth floor pipes. A minute later and it is the perfect level of scalding, rinsing your bronzed skin clean of the stink of weed and cigarettes and whatever-her-name was. You stand there under the burning stream, face looking at the swirling drain, arms forward and pressed against the mildewed blue tile. Your cunt is well raw, but the hot water does its best to turn the painful sting into a numb throbbing. You have to hold your breath as you turn your face to the waterfall, the heat causing an involuntary gasp that gets a bit of it up your nose. You sneeze a few times, then blow the rest out into your hands, letting the shower slip the peridot blob off your hands and off down the drain to mingle with the rest of the waste in this shit-tier town.

The washcloth is rough, worn ragged by too many late-night washing machines. You grind it into your skin, exfoliating the night, scrubbing off the memory of touch and intimate moaning. Her enthusiasm still lives in your ears, but your cunt is the only dry thing in the shower stall. The blue lipstick leaves an odd shade on your once-red-now-pink? washcloth and you marvel at it like some sort of Freud-come-Rorschach test. It is something of a grinning face, here in the steam, or maybe a bat, or maybe a moon, or maybe it is a greasepaint smear on a tiny piece of cloth. You think this over as the water grows cold, and your nipples stand rigidly sore at attention, framed as they are by the deep teeth marks. If you had been raped, at least your tits could be used to make a dental mould. It is a comforting thought from left field, and it brings you back into the moment. You kill the water and reach through the gap in your curtain for your moth-eaten towel and little turban thing your mother thought would make a great birthday gift a few years back. It does not do much to sop up the excess water in your hair, but it is the thought that counts. Moreover, you look cute, dressed up like an infomercial.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s