How many times have I leaned on you?
Why is it, in the cycle of disrepair, that I reach out this way? I’m drunk, I’m on the phone. I shouldn’t be on the phone. I want you to come over. You’re my new squeeze, my ex, my anything, my everything. I want you.
I want you and I don’t want myself. I don’t want to be myself anymore. I’m drunk or I’m hungover. I’m raging against the dying light, or I’m licking my wounds at noon. I have booze and drugs and rock and roll and I need sex. I need you. I have to have you. You are all I want now. Without you there is nothing left.
There is no us. There is only me. Me and my hands and they can’t be still without these chemicals. I love you but I can’t consider you. I love you and I would if I could. And I mean that. I’m almost out of excuses but I’m hoping that you’ll listen to one more. I’m hoping that you’ll see past the agitation, the aggravation, and the endless frustration. Don’t look at the vomit on the floor that’s all crusty and rust-colored. I still consider myself a spiritual person and vomit doesn’t bother me. Not much at least. Not anymore. Just don’t tell anyone. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?
There’s a knock on the door and I drag myself to my feet. Well, hellllllll-o.
You brush past me, wanting to assess the damage. For a Friday afternoon, it’s really not that bad. At least as I see it. The furniture is largely upright and unstained. What matters to you as far as I can tell is that you’re here now, and that I’m breathing all right. I am. When I’m not chain smoking, that is. And if you ignore the occasional coughing fits.
I don’t think about why you’re here or what’s right or wrong. I can’t be bothered with all of that. Why address the impossible…? This is what I am and what I want to be, what I always wanted to be. Otherwise, the conversations might be different. We might be different.
You fell in love and you ignored the warning signs. The pictures of us together are lovely. You sleep deeply and somehow the blaring music in the other room doesn’t bother you. If I were you, and I were a woman, I’d probably buy earplugs. If I were you I might try to help but then I might give up, too.
If I were you, I’d stop answering the phone so much.
I have goals and I have dreams. You play along with my romantic notions and slurred speeches. What else can you do at this point? You’re a woman and you fell in love. Leave, you’re still in love. And then you’re in love with an apparition, a memory. What good would that do you, or more importantly — much more importantly — me?
But you’re in love with a ghost as we chit-chat today. The ghost of the good me, the one you came to love. The ghost of our happy times, before I started wallowing in the wretched.
You push me away at first when I try to kiss you. I have been very lonely today. It doesn’t occur to me why, but I wouldn’t care had it registered. I would have brushed that away just as you brush my kiss away now.
You want me to take a shower. I think about this. At first I say no in order to buy some time. Showering will be awful, it will ruin my high and I know this. But now I am naked and getting into the shower. I stop in front of the mirror and admire myself. I like to do this when I am high but I won’t want to do this tomorrow.
I have an angle. Nudity is a precursor to sex. So I will shower.
When I get out of the shower, you are on the phone. You hang up and look at me. You smile. You take the extra towel and you run it over my hair. I smile back at you and do a little dance. This is courtship.
I pour you a drink even though you don’t really want one. I get high as soon as I’m dressed so that I can relax and ditch the bad clean feeling. I comb my hair. And then I comb it a second time.
We agree to watch a movie. I bide my time. Ten minutes into the movie I am bored and hit pause. I always do this. We argue. I pour a drink for myself. You decide to have another. We sit on the couch.
I manage to harangue you into going in the bedroom. I have needs and then my needs have needs too. As soon as I get your clothes off it’s all sweetness and light, but I’m biding my time again.
I fuck you hard. I’m not nice about it. You go with it. I almost lose my way, but I throw us both over and use my mouth all over your body. You suck my cock back to fullness and we flip around again. It’s frantic now, we both know that we’ve got one last shot. You are groaning and straining with your back arched. We come together. You howl as I grunt like a wild boar.
You wanted to fix me and I wanted to fuck you. I got what I wanted.
Where we will go from here, no one can say. I wipe the semen off with a stiffened towel that hasn’t been washed in weeks. Naked, I go into the kitchen and pour another round.
Tomorrow I will tell you stories of reform. Tonight I will drink and smoke weed and fuck you and smoke weed again and listen to music. In that order. You will fall asleep hours before me. Alone.
Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.