Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Damaged Goods


She was tall, almost as tall as me, at least in heels she was. And her hair was dyed and streaked, so you couldn’t tell what her natural colors were; it hung in a bob, displaying her long neck. Her tits were huge and her cleavage stretched down low into the bottom of her v-neck sweater, like an invitation or a warning, depending on how you saw it. She had on tight jeans, which clung to her little ass like a marquee, and I stared at her and what was playing out before me, as she paraded around the club.

Mike told me, between shots and bottles, that she was alone and eager. A give-a-way. A free agent. A lady with no take. I ignored him though, eyes spinning in the scene, and asked for more drink tickets, pronto. He slid me a few and dissolved into the crowd. Mingling through the veins of the social. I sat still in a room full of strangers, smoking my cigarette, thinking about her jeans, and how they stuck to her hips and ass like a desperate kid begging for attention.

I had to meet her. Sure, she was damaged goods, an easy target. A whore for eyes, for compliments, for drinks. But she had a sloppy swagger that I recognized as my own, weak and wounded, aching for some sweet talk. I just had to walk up to her and look into her eyes and then tell her she was beautiful, and we would be forever, or at least for the night. It was up to me to make a move.

So I did.

And we were outside standing against a wall when she leaned up hard against my chest and asked is I had some flame. I took out my lighter and scraped up some fire and touched the tip of her cigarette with it. Even before the first plume of smoke had drifted down from her mouth and floated up to the sky the words, I want to spend the night with you, had spilled out onto the sidewalk and the street, which was filling up with anxious club regulars, mapping out their next destination. Everybody was a witness.


We hopped in her ride, a borrowed luxury car, typical transportation for a beauty with no clues. We screeched and swerved and hurled along the streets, to a house in the hills of Oakland. She drove like a maniac, changing lanes with drunken fury, flipping off the sparse traffic and zooming through the freeway as if the car would turn into a pumpkin at the top of the hour. We got to the house which wasn’t hers and wasn’t mine but the door was unlocked so we went on in, collapsing through the door as if we were late for a meeting.

She took her shirt off. I used to dance at the Hustler Club, she said. I looked over her body and said back, I bet you did. That place was always too expensive for me, so I never went. I chose to frequent the smaller, dingier strip joints, where the floors were sticky and girls smelled of liquor and the back room went unpatrolled by security guards. The dancers were weathered and desperate and knew the score. It made me more comfortable giving them money. The exchange seemed more even.

This girl was high priced. Spoiled. Her high heels could cover my rent. Her wardrobe could pay off my debt. She had a flat belly and thick, curvy hips. Her skin was olive, so her bruises more hidden, and her arms were tight, yet soft, and feminine. Her massive tits stood firm and perky, and she let her hands glide over them as I stared. She had the same eyes as all the strippers I’d met though, sad and defeated, proud and fragile. Hungry. Manic. Lonely.

I don’t get opportunities like this often, so I sprang into action. I slammed open the cupboards in a frenzy for alcohol. I had to live up to this moment; my nerves couldn’t get the best of me. I’m not the smoothest operator when it comes to women, though I can turn on the charm if I got a good chemical balance going. I found some rum and poured two glasses, doubles, neat, then walked over to where she was.

It didn’t take long to get her pants off. She slid out of them within minutes, as if it was habitual. I had my tongue in her mouth and my hands where sliding and gripping all over her body. I undid my belt, fumbling with my jeans. I leaned into her but held my arms up a little, so I wouldn’t be too heavy. She groped for my dick, pulling at it violently. I pulled back, still flaccid, embarrassed, and kept my mouth searching her face and neck. I jerked myself furiously, willing with every cell in my body to get hard. To get excited. To be able to seal this deal.

Panic was setting in. Her eyes were no longer closed; she was looking at me, no longer feigning ecstasy, and more projecting confusion. I lunged at her face, swallowing her tongue, hands and fingers probing at her slightly damp vagina. I tried to use some of her juices to lube me up. God damnit, I thought, this could NOT be happening. I climbed down her body and started licking her lips and swirling around her clit, still pulling at my dick like a madman. She was bald down there, which didnt surprise me. It seems all girls are these days. She moaned and started to writhe around and grab at my nappy afro and squeeze her legs on my head. I got limper with each second. Cursed.

After my jaw begins to grow stiff and my cock starts to chafe, I raise up from between her thighs and say, I need a drink.

She looks at me, her eyes bored and knowing. Then waves me away when I offer to refill her glass. I go back to the kitchen and pour another shot of rum and then look at myself in the reflection of the microwave. My penis is shriveled and limp, puny and pathetic, but my eyes are wide and excited. Wild. I rail up a line of speed then snort it without a straw, shoving my face onto the plate and plugging a nostril with one finger, inhaling deeply. I wince from the burn and gag from the drip and a tear squeezes from my eye. I down my shot and say to the microwave, Its gonna be a long ass night, then laugh.

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that post wasnt really that good but i felt like writing something and thats just what came out. i'll probably write something really soon just to push that one down a bit. in the mean time, check out this list of the top 100 music videos according to pitchfork. Where are you supposed to watch videos these days anyway? not Mtv, thats for sure. do you really have to go online?

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Creative Commons License
:gray matters: by jkg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at downtownalleys.blogspot.com.