or "CERVIX WITH A SMILE"
I nailed her once out of curiousity, and twice for flinching. I needed sexual healing—and indeed, her love was like bad medicine, and she gave me medicine head. It was like a money-shot heard 'round the world, and all-too-often, by my roommates.
She was a sweet girl, and with few regrets of our time ill-spent together, brief though it thankfully was—indeed, it was cervix with a smile. But something was amiss about the Ms. I couldn't put my finger on it, though I'd had my fingers in it several times. Perhaps this was the problem, in the end...
It was friendly fire from the meat rifle. You should never use your friends as sex toys.
Women have all the best toys, of course, and always have. I worked in a porn shop; it's the second lesson you learn (the first being, Use the bathroom next door…). Men's sex toys are never cool; they're fragile and expensive like a real woman, but they smell terrible, and no matter how much you spent or how good it looks, you're still a sad little man who comes home to a cold rubber hole.
That musky lube n' latex smell always stuck with me, long after I quit the shop. Cold and clinical—sterile yet filthy—it's like a quivering little dentist's office hunched down on all fours.
Eventually, this goes somewhere.
Ah yes…that night, that wretched night…
There was food and drink, and drink, and drink. And then, later, we drank.
She was a good friend, though she stood outside the circle; and like all who stand outside of circles, there was a high risk of possession. But low inhibitions love high risks, and to seek a higher love some nights is just to say you seek a higher proof. Some friends of mine desired her; but it was I, Rasputin, who appeared to hold the mantle—dusty though it was, and cluttered with denial. I sort of knew, but didn't want to. I wasn't sure I wanted her; I wasn't sure I didn't. I only knew I wanted something soon.
She was mourning the loss of a long-term fling and a short-term buzz like a widow at the wake… Well, I thought, there's only one way to console a widow, right? Weaving the last frayed threads of courage into a hangman's rope of utter ballsiness, I pondered my odds, ogled her curves, and took my best shot at my worst idea.
Score one for Rasputin, and a couch that might not ever be the same. If walls could talk, they'd just console the floor; the poor thing had an awful night. And yet the further I went, the closer I got to realizing just how bad this could turn out. In seeking an out, I pleaded no contest and no condom; but I was not about to get off quite so easy (or rather not get off, as such)—she came prepared, and I would either let her down or lay her down right then.
It was no longer my conquest; rather, it became hers. When the good get going, the bad get going at it really good. But with every awkward fondle and averted gaze, even the silent language of our pores and glands began to hint that this was not a good idea. Something about her pheromones threw me off.
It took forever to pick up on her signals. She made zero noise, and never moved unless I physically moved her limbs for her. I constantly positioned her like a doll, aiming for a response of any sort, and eventually a freckle for a target. When she came, it was like a shy and blushing Hentai chick—no sound, no shake, no motion…then an odd little grunt followed by a fine filmy trickle from the bunnyhole. The first time out, I didn't notice—I'd assumed I was a failure, until she finally pulled away, and breathless, said, "Last one." Sure enough, there was a small mess and the musk of her unsettling pheromones.
It felt so petty to even notice, yet something waiting out the whiskey deep within whispered and insisted that it all had meaning still. I almost lost interest; there was something weird, familiar about that scent. I shrugged it off, and took my turn. The condom ripped; she offered up another. I don't recall the brand, but Lemmy help me, I'll never buy it. They were cheap, tight, and desensitizing. The spermicide smelled like bile and melting plastic, like someone had been trying to eat Tupperware and heaved. I was about twenty thrusts to payday when it hit me…it wasn't just her offbeat chemistry, or some Third World spermicide—on any other night, I'd never care. It was a combination of things, a conspiracy of tactile discontentment…sight, sound, smell, and taste…an alien sensation, like I wasn't meant to be there. Bah…whiner.
I finally placed the scent as the friction stirred it up…that sterile-but-dirty, sickly clinical hospital smell: she smelled just like a sex toy, an artificial vagina.
Combined with her silence, limp passivity and lack of natural response, I felt more so then than ever like I was viciously screwing a blow-up doll.
One man's daughter is another man's disappointment. But then, Need is a harsh mistress; and when staring face to busoms, nose to nipples with a word made flesh that spells relief, release, and nobody's fault but mine, anybody's tune can change, anybody's life can become a Lynyrd Skynyrd lyric, and this bird you'll never change—happy as a lark until the vultures gather 'round, to see who stumbles naked from your room.
One day, you awake to the smothering falseness of the world around you. It was Wednesday; I was due. "Reality is what you get away with," I said; and some nights, I get away with far too much. One day, the Veil of Maya lifts, and you realize it's as filthy as all your other linens in the pile.
It's all a distraction; it's all a diversion…a Black Iron Prison, and every Need and Want about you just the spear of a centurion.
I knew what I needed, and gave her what she wanted, until I needed her not to want it anymore. I had second thoughts going in, and a third thought going down…
I don't generally fuck people I like; it's better if I feel like they deserve the abuse. Hunger says I need to shoot the lamb; the Will to Eat says, "She's a dirty, dirty lamb. Aim for the head." Love is the Law; Fire at Will.
She basked in a brevity of afterglow and a heaviness of sweat. I basked in the metaphors around me, bitter esoterica with the smells and tastes of all I didn't need. Huddled in a murky, sunless room, bathed in flickers of artificial light, a lasting ick and lingering swishes of another successful failure, I was fingering the stitches that held a deeper wound together, with a blaring of the stereo and a bottle full of sleep.
Sometimes, it's fucking great to be alive; and sometimes, only "sometimes" is enough. Suicide is only cowardice if you do it in your sleep. Again, I insist within, that I'm prolonging the inevitable. Tonight, we'll say I'm referring just to sleep. Sleep, like death, is something that we often resist merely out of habit, and frequently out of formality.
It's an artificial peace. Even when the mornings fall on afternoons…the aches, the dread, the throbbing head…the calls that never cease… imminent alarms blaring out imminent doom.
I sent her on her way. We'd reconvene sporadically throughout the week, but I found myself needing greater and greater levels of intoxication to make it through. I didn't want to hurt her feelings; but she'd gone from a good friend to a slinky, writhing mess of all and everything I didn't want. I found myself erect out of sheer courtesy and awake out of sheer nuisance. "Not tonight," I'll say. She'll pout and cock an eyebrow, "Headache?" "No," I'd reply, "Liver failure."
I sip the caramel-colored hemlock more evenings than I should, but I've always known the truth from hype—be it "wise spirits" this, "spiritual drink" that, or "love by candlelight and triple-barrel distillation"…the truth is that no bottle of booze in existence—regardless of malt, price range, or reputation among other inebriates—has ever been, nor ever will be, a "wise liquor," a "spiritual drink," any "worker of love," or anything apart from an alcoholic pipe dream…a "bourbon legend." I've said it oft before, and even still I only sometimes listen: The piss-ant, when pissed on, does not become more "ant." Thus, no drunken man, upon further drinking, has ever become more "man." However, some have compared favorably with the aforementioned ant.
Artificial colors, artificial flavors—every word but "80 proof" is just a hollow lie. It says "very rare" on the label, but they had a thousand bottles on the shelf. At least as many empties clink across the bedroom floor. "Imported," but it's made in Tennessee… "Premium," but it's seven bucks a fifth…
It's an artificial confidence, to quench the coward's thirst…to lend an artificial joy, to all our joyless toys and worse.
Hormones, pheromones, erogenous zones and grating tones…sometimes you're better off waking up alone. I'll bemoan waking alone…bitch n' moan, bitch n' moan…and yet I wouldn't let her sleep with me. I gave her what she wanted, took the minimum I needed, and sent her on her way.
At the end of the day, I would be a notch on her bedpost disguised as a notch on mine. I don't believe in "love" so much as psychosis-driven affection. I've often posited that there is no "good" or "evil," only actions with consequences—some favorable, some not. I likewise contend that there is no "love," but rather, desire with tenacity—some desires being more tenacious and enduring than others, like syphilis without all the brain hemorrhaging.
Love shall light our way like lamps of burning human fat…
But it's an artificial light. (Nero's lanterns burning bright)
Beyond the old heave ho, it only heaves with old(er) hat.
She made life seem less empty for a time; but the void that cuts upon her absence expresses only that it was merely a distraction. But from what? The faith I don't have? The hope I can't see? The gods I can't hear? The penultimate truth I can never fully know? I don't need to go out and find myself; I'm not out there. I'm right here, awake with only increments more angst than any other godless morning after, mourning afternoon. I won't find myself in anyone's beliefs. I'm not lost; I just did something I wish I hadn't—the key is that I know. And the Tree of Knowledge bore fruit tasting of Sunday's satin undies on a Tuesday afternoon, with a scent of bitter loss and inexpensive mall perfume. It's not quite paradise lost; still I shall slither back from Eden, having done the Devil's work.
Religion is no less a distraction. Most religions and philosophies, myths and metaphors we live by or live against, are like crumpled-up old sailor's maps…street guides before the age of GPS: the map is not the territory, and no map can ever show you the exact locale of every shark or giant squid at every time—hell, even in this day and age, 95% of our ocean's unexplored. No road map tells you what the traffic's like, or if the cops are out in force tonight, or if some neighbor's drooling offspring is playing ball out in the street. The menu is not the meal; and no menu's gonna tell you if the cook teabagged your food.
I don't buy into absolutes, though my disbelief is couched in absolutist terms. No shepherd's scroll or tribal legend, no hero myth or Channeled Regent, is ever there to warn you when the walls come tumbling down. That's not to say that one can't dodge a bullet now and then, living by the book or heeding words of old…but it is to say that those books, those words, won't tell you the location of every gunman, garden snake, and gloryhole. You have to think for yourself, and be prepared for sudden stops, or giant squid, or cock hairs in your food.
And sometimes, you have to be prepared to accept that you're a lecherous alcoholic who ruins countless friendships with his penis. Oh, wait—nevermind; I found some Vicodin. Carry on.
Be it love or faith… kisses, cock or codeine…it's all diversionary. It's an artificial hope, bathed in artificial light. But truly, these are artificial times.
There's a raven at my door, and Old Crow in my glass; let's shed a (tiny) artificial tear, and let it pass…