Carry Me Home

I followed the staircase up to his apartment. Always the same, stone or wood, cold or damp, warm or harsh. There would be the quick skip of my heart at the door, to let me know I was still alive, and then the door would open and I'd die a little. Wrap around couches, even though they detested guests. Obscure mannequin girls wearing household trash, to make them artsy, daring. I'll bat my eyes, appear meek, always polite, and yes, just a hint of awe to let the pretense of sexual tension build. Moments of bullshit would pass, the pretense of a power struggle. Only a fool would see this as a paradox, who was really in power. He took delight in thinking he had something I wanted, I needed. I took delight in deceit, haggling my disgusting lover down, doing my capitalist patriotic duty. If I wanted to, I could get it for free. But There is nothing in this world for free. Money though, or the abuse of flesh, what would I be willing to give up.

"Do you smoke Stacey?" Oh he was an easy one. I snapped out of my trance and smiled.

"Smoke What?" I offered with a daring smile, I could tell he was easy, and I was free to move about the cabin. He lit me a cigarette and I looked him in the eye, asshole if you catch my hair on fire, you're gonna pay. He was close to me now. His features were raped by drugs. Meth probably. Weed was Jolly. Coke was all about the velocity of rage in those eyes, the quick beats of the chest. Heroin was the slow decay of life. Meth was the fierce progression, cells slamming into each other at break neck speeds, sweat screaming out, scratches and itches of a hunter Thompson feel. He was oozing. Fuck me, I don't wanna deal with a Meth Addict. I swallowed a grimace. The sweat I could handle, it was the jerky movements, the endless sex. I was surprised porn wasn't playing. I could only get away with teasing for a short time. What I promised now, with a lick of the lips, would be set in stone, under slimy ripping hands, later. It wouldn't be a gruesome rape. Just an untolerable day of getting fucked. These guys, high on mr clean, were meek too. Could I put my arm to a needle to try to forget awhile? Not with him, no we were dancing on a different tune. He was trying to waltz, I was trying to be buried.