This is an old piece I just dug up somewheres. I like it. It's mean.
And it's so perfectly me.
There are two windows in the bathroom,
each looking out to an oil-stained driveway.
The windows are above the two cabinets and in the middle of these two cabinets is the sink. The house is old which means that the tiles used and the patterns they are in are also old.
A combination that girls always responded to by saying,
“That’s so cute,”
which means that they think that they know something about design.
Early morning sun is coming in and reflecting off the glass that covers the two cabinets showing the cocaine shadows of every line that has ever been cut on top of them.
Megan and I are sitting in the bathtub,
it is 9 a.m.
and we have been up all night.
I look at her pussy spread on the dry porcelain and then up at her eyes which are fixed open like they might never close again,
and then I look back down at her pussy,
the inner lips not wet but sticky and adhering to the gray/brown floor of the tub which should be white. I look at this rather than look at her eyes.
We are naked and leaning forward towards each other but not touching, and not wanting to touch.
Like opposing magnets we seem to have an impenetrable distance between us, at least while facing each other.
I tried a new dealer.
A Mexican guy named Paul who only came to the bar on Sunday nights when no one else was there. He had been coming in for months before we somehow got on the topic of cocaine.
He handed me a business card for a limousine service, a black card with a silver silhouette of an 80’s model stretch Lincoln. It looked like the template that would be labeled “Incognito Coke Dealer” in the sample book for business cards.
“When you call tell me you’re having some friends over,”
he leans over the bar after looking over his shoulders,
“tell me to bring one friend or two.”
I thought it funny that he would look over his shoulders even while speaking in code.
Wasn’t that the whole point of speaking that way so that you could say it in the open?
To bring one friend costs $60.
Two friends costs $108.
It was such an odd price that I felt like I was ordering through a catalogue.
I never ask drug dealers what they are giving me or what measurements I am getting for what price. That seemed too much a part of marijuana culture. The inspection of the bag, pretending that you could glean what was inside with a few tugs up and down in mid-air. I fucking hate potheads. I hate the openness in which people deal with pot and talk about it, roll joints and show off a new bag. I have fantasized about becoming a cop just so I could pull someone over with an It’s 4:19, got a minute? bumper sticker and beat the shit out of them with a baton on a litter-covered highway shoulder. If you are doing something illegal you should feel like a criminal.
That’s part of the appeal.
Next Sunday I am having people over so he brings two friends.
I have no idea what the weight is or what it’s like,
I just hand over the wad of money across the bar in a gesture like I am giving him change for his drink. Drinks which he doesn’t have to pay for anymore after we switched roles. I have become his customer for a more clandestine product
which makes me the one who always has a tab open.
The amount I am giving him is large enough that I feel the weight of the hours worked in order to accumulate it as it stacks up on the peeling varnish of the bar.
The same way you feel paying rent.
I can break down my habits into which night I worked paid to cover it.
One hundred and eight dollars is roughly two-thirds of a Friday night’s pay.
Or it is two Sunday night’s worth of money.
Hours of my life negated with a few minutes worth of drugs.
He hands over a bag with a silver twist-tie on it. I can’t see what I have or weigh it, and even if I could weigh it I wouldn’t know what any amount meant. I just have to trust that it is somewhere near $108 worth of cocaine.
I pull out my license to cut the white ball that I am trying to keep from rolling around on the mirror. The second I touch the edge of my ID to the ball and apply a little bit of pressure its proportions seem to grow exponentially.
Like one of those capsules you got as a kid that you left in water and after a few hours you had a rubbery, foot-long T. Rex.
Except this is a giant pile of white.
There are four of us sitting around the table,
a pack of cigarettes in place in front of each of us,
assuming the stance of what we are about to go through.
We take a simultaneous deep breath and begin.
There is an automatic turntable connected to the light switch in the bathroom. The sound is slow for a split second before Neil Young’s voice comes together with the time it takes the belt to get to 33 rpms.
“You’re on the losing end,”
I am told from the crackling speaker built into the machine.
The light from the sun is moving beyond any way I have ever thought of sunlight,
of light’s intensity,
of light’s ability to illuminate until complete saturation.
Reflecting back and forth from tile to mirror to glass countertop to porcelain,
a million whites pushing through us,
the only surface not brilliant enough to reflect anything is the moldy bottom of the tub where her vagina sits parted,
red and swollen from intermittent fucking cut with intermittent crying.
It is 9 a.m.
The cocaine was gone shortly after the sun came up.
We watched the people go to work, the joggers and the dog walkers beginning their days.
We are still on the porch.
The bags under our eyes.
The swollen red of our gums and our nostrils,
the bag sitting there next to the mirror like a broken condom after a bad fuck.
We are so useless, so worthless that we know that if someone were to use our bodies for food or to keep a fire burning it would have more value than it does watching the world begin through our endless night.
She is crying in the bathtub.
I pull her up,
keeping that bouncing distance between our faces from the oppsoing forces of ourselves and turn her around.
I can feel the tears all the way through her body.
From her tiny back where I can see and feel every knot of her spine to her bony shoulders,
her body is shaking like her crying had plugged her into some outlet that I couldn’t see,
flipped on and off to cause her to spasm.
The white is reflecting off her back and up onto me as I spit on my hand and rub it into the dry but swollen space between her legs.
I try to spit again but have to wait for my mouth to accumulate what feels like the remaining moisture in my body.
After getting enough to cover the head of my cock I push her face onto the faucet as I bury myself into her pussy,
my penis sticking and pulling at the irritated walls of her insides until I can feel the tip knock against her cervix,
a pressure and a distance that is hurting both of us,
and with her head on the warm faucet, her eyes fixed on the gray/brown of the bottom of the tub she cries like each thrust is forcing the tears out of her.
I look past us and down at the dirt of the tub. The tub with no water in it.
Inbetween tears and heaving, choking inhalations she tells me we have to break up.
I’m a bad influence on you
I look at the stains accumulated beneath.
The black of mildew.
We’re no good for each other
The dull yellow of cum left from the last time one of my roommates fucked or one of us jacked off in the shower.
The texture of it minutely mountainous,
jagged peaks of stiff semen from its slow drying and spreading out.
The fat and proteins separating from the water in it.
Each drying at a different rate from the next.
Or you’re a bad influence on me
I can’t tell anymore
I say as I dig my cock into her cervix,
the hard chrome faucet next to her mouth with the tears dripping off of it making me harder than I should be after a night of cocaine.