I must admit, my favorite part of living alone is not having to answer to anyone about how I spend my time at home. For example, this weekend I didn't shower. I didn't mind, my cat didn't mind, but I can see how this might appear to a roommate. Also, I decided on Sunday that I was going to do yoga naked and drink bloody mary's. It was a lovely afternoon, and despite not having a cocktail shaker, and I rather enjoyed my hillbilly bloody marys. About half way through my first, and in the downward dog position - A story idea popped in my head. Now, stories don't give themselves to me like this. I process stories, I plan stories, I know stories before they form on the page. But this idea was foreign and it just seemed to appear in my brain.
I sat and I wrote, with a bloody mary in one hand and a half-lit cigarette in other. For hours, this absurd story just flowed out of my fingertips. I am still working on my final scene, but I know what I want to see happen. In fact - I kind of knew this whole story before I knew the scenes of the story. I know most writers like to make it seem that there is some magic in what they do.... but truthfully, there isn't much magic in my arduous tinkering with words. Until this piece... enjoy a taste.
She smelled like another man. As she lifted the linen duvet and swung her long black hair into bed, my nostrils filled with the scent of her sweat and another man's musk. I was barely awake, just tossing and turning in the same fragmented nightmare, when she crept into bed. I smelled the sin on her, like many other nights. She never showered and I would never ask her too.
I laid still on my side of the bed, wide awake, and listened to her fidget under the heavy blankets. She adjusted her pillow with a careless wanton for sleeping bed mates and sank dramatically down into it's plump feather. Her long black hair splayed over the pillow, spilling near my face. Silently I filled my lungs with the smell that lingered in the air. I waited until she settled before I reached to her, pulled her closer. My hands navigated over the deep curves of her side, dragging lightly over her clammy skin – baby powder and sweet, maybe lubricant. It felt lovely still. I snaked my hand down past her belly button to the wetness between her legs. She sighed in recognition. I pulled her to me and let her sticky skin press against mine. I knew I would awake smelling like sweaty sex – another man's sweaty sex – but it didn't bother me.
My alarm buzzed brutally through the dark room. My heart rate quickened and I reached over to shut off the noise. I didn't want to wake her. It was 6:30am. She wasn't very pleasant at 6:30am. One morning, I was so lost in the percussion of pots and pans, I didn't hear the alarm. She woke up first and swung her arm over hard, whacking me in the face, “Get up and shut it off,” she hissed. I had a black eye for the next four days.
One morning, after I showered, I returned to the bedroom to dress in silence. She was naked in the bed, the covers thrown wildly over herself. The first sunlight peeked through the cracks of my custom-order vertical blinds. It was shining in the room like the crack of light in my dreams. I looked to her, one breast exposed outside the cream satin sheet. The light beamed off the barbell through her pert nipple. I decided to not put on my pants so quickly and sank into the overstuffed chaise lounge, resigning to risk pleasuring myself to the sight of her vulnerable nipple illuminated by the morning sun. I bite my lip to stifle my moans. I knew she would punish me severely if she caught me, but that only added to my excitement. It was only after I had thoroughly cleaned myself and buttoned my trousers that I tasted bitter blood in my mouth.
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