She is my Marla Singer: the one who hates me so much, I could die.
And I am the worst thing to ever happen to her.
Lit cigarette, hair a raging mess. Shades so big the darkness envelops her. The attitude is in her walk: a cat strut that is equal parts "fuck me" and "fuck you." It's only after she comes to her senses that she remembers to cast me aside. The lucidity that arrives on the south side of an orgasm never ceases to snap one back to reality. From king to commoner in a little less than slow blink of the eyes. I become the vessel, a mere means to an end as old as time, while each of my vices come back into view. And that is precisely the moment she chooses to look elsewhere. It's as if I'm the cancer - some sort of malignant growth on her perfectly cupped ass that she can't wait to cut out. Or maybe a boil. Yes. A boil: painful, annoying, but harmless enough to keep around with the hope that it will burst all by itself. If she's waiting for me to implode like some kind of neutron star...
But the sex. Oh, the sex.
She lets me fuck her like the animal that I am - biting, gnawing, scratching, clawing. The cigarette burns on the side of the bed like an idling taxi in the rain, ready to take her back to the bowels of the urban hell she calls home. She wants me. Her moans melt into screams that turn into echoes of silence bouncing off the walls of my mind. Most nights I leave my body, watching from above like some existential pervert at a ten-cent peep show while the shadow of myself slams wildly into her. It's as if I can disconnect from an act that by its very nature can be no more distant. It's all very mechanical, really; there is no love there. No emotion. In. Out. In. Out. Switch. Move this. Grab that. I only kiss her to shut her up.
(The neighbors. Nosy as hell, and always apt to complain. Never in words. Just judgmental stares. Even their dog. Snotty little shit.)
Day or night, she tells me when she's ready. I have no say in the matter. Always ready to deliver. FedSex. The call used to come attached to a tale, but no longer. No more drunken nights or emotional voids. No more self-pity or self-destruction. No words: she comes; we fuck; we cum; she goes. There exists neither rhyme nor reason. Only Trojan. Pleasantries are for people who care. We can't share in what was never there. But whether or not the story starts the same, we always arrive at the same last page: smoke, strut, slam, stairs, screech, silence. Me, limp-dicked and alone, picking at my frayed nerve endings, licking my emotional wounds, and wondering why in the hell I've never flipped this goddamned mattress.
She is the stain. All of the stains. And she doesn't know what I've been through. She doesn't know what I can take. I can keep at this all day; this ruse of amorphous amour. The sloppy, slovenly shitshow that is every drop-everything-and-rendezvous. If I could just scrape the taste of her rotted, rugged kiss from the roof of my mouth...
She will never get to me.
