I leave my door unlocked and my window cracked open like a
wing so Andrea can slip in and smoke.
“I love your backrubs.” Andrea says, holding her cigarette
in a fashion which suggests that she is about ready to take a bite out of the
corked end.
Andrea
extinguishes her smoke in the ash tray I filched from Lums before it closed
three weeks ago. She lolls on my bed like some kind of beached aquatic
creation. With her face burrowed in my mattress I begin to plough the palms in
overt circular motion, deeply penetar
She is wearing a yellow shirt and no bra.
“There is
one thing you could do.”
***
Laurie Newmann’s lips look like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. It is slightly parted, gaped, creases over the sides of her cheeks when she smiles. The lesbian is introducing one of her gay friends to Dave and Laurie has her bottom lip bended into her mouth in a jiving pout. I continue to smoke my cigar, gesticulating with the lit end, sitting next to Laurie, my legs crossed, feigning a distinctive look of importance.
“David,”
Laurie, her voice smothered in a slight
hint of cool smoke sexiness. “When you sit next to me this close my underwear
is wet.” She says. Dave is situated on the polar opposite avenue of the oak bar
in the Rendez-Vous, his chin classily tilted up, guffawing at a joke. Laurie is
pouting. I remember driving her home last summer, in her SUV, while she was
smashed, asking her what she loved for, her informing me that it was passion,
purely passion. That is what she lives for. That is what she wants.
*
“Shall I
say grace in Latin?” Mike Davis inquires.
*
She asks me,
which one I want to see first.
*
“I’m
looking for a gift to give to someone whom I love more than God.” Patrick
Mullowney says.
*
“David,
you’re a poet.” Anne Twitty is reminding me. “Look into your soul. You are
hurting her unintentionally.”
“I want
nothing to do with her.” I say, the words shuffling out between my lips as if I
am strutting my cards out on the table.
“David,”
Anne admonishes. Her pancake make-up is slowly leaking down the left hand side
of her face. From behind me I can hear Sarah wailing out as if she is in labor.
She is keeled over, tears that resemble little shards of glass settling on the
side of her cheek. Anne is reprimanding my actions, sounding like a Jewish
Mother and a ladle. I can tell that Tom, wherever he is, silently biting into
the back of his gas station cigar, agitated, barking insults at the back necks
of young performers, unless, of course, they contain a vagina, in which case
Anne Twitty is the exception.
“David,”
Anne says, still dressed in her seedy garments from Act two, scene three.
“David, you’re a poet. You write from your soul. Please,” she says, swallowing,
talk to me as if she is still in character, occasionally rolling the top of her
r’. “Please, David. Please talk to her. She needs to know that you still care
about her.”
“No,” I
tell her, Anne, simply. “I can’t. I need to go.
*
Andrea
continues to laugh. Her face transitions from shades of beet to shades of
burgundy. She chortles, cradles her beer in her free hand and continues to
laugh in an uproarious monotone, occasionally stuttering.
“you make
me…you make me laugh so hard.”
We alight the cheap aluminum of our alcoholic chalices.
“I need to go Pee.” Andrea says
“Come
here,” I say. Andrea’s face is still the color of cheap wine as I lead her out
of my door where, in spite of Rudy Huxtable and her mandates, I re-affixed the
cut-out of Ganesha, God and protector of my literary den of destruction.
Leading Andrea with one triangular shaped arm as if she is blind we arrive at
the MENs restroom, aptly located less than ten feet from my door. Jay’s
roommate from york
Andrea’s
face is still red, she continues to chortle. Leading her further into the
citrus-scented linoleum echo I point to the urinal.
“Do you
want to sit or squat?” I inquire, in an innocuous fashion,
She points
to the adjacent stall door and informs me that she will sit. I enter the stall
door with her and, clicking the door behind us in a solid twist of my wrist. I
am drunk and thinking about the picture Chonica took of me the first day I
arrived Below my navel it feels like a
british sentinel is saluting the
She continues to chuckle as she prods near the copper planet
near her waist, before slightly wiggling, pulling both her panties and jeans
down in one simultaneous motion as she sits. There is a shadowy elusiveness to
the area where her ample thighs coalesce with the pale white maturity of her
lower abdomen and torso, resembling that of a limp hot air balloon. Andrea
continues to laughing me that this is her first time peeing in front of anyone.
Slowly treacles of fluid begin to drip from somewhere inside of her. She is
laughing as I can no longer take it, thinking of Jay and how she described his
own cock as a stallion the day he lodged it into Alex’s ear when he was asleep,
I unbutton the top of my jeans and avail the antennae of my flesh, planked
above her kneecaps, as if offering my rubicund faced overweight princess who I
have covertly monikered “a telly-tubby” her baton.
“What do
you think?” I say
Andrea
smiles, there is a slight pause in her stream. Part of me wants to bend her
over the second she unstraddles the stool and take her right here. Her laugher seems to subside as she examines
the flesh virility of my anatomical instrument. She then whips off a sheath of
toilet paper, scrunched it into a corsage
before swiping it between the dank area between her thighs, still
laughing, almost in staccato like hiccups. Almost out of control as she reels
up her armor in one quick yank turns around and flushes.
I place my sword back in my sheath. As the toilet whorls our
feet our both standing up in the center of the stall, I suggest we go back to
my room for another smoke.
“Yes,” She
says indeed, “Another smoke would be good.”
“I was gonna say,” Adds Karl. “In accordance with his question, what do you give to someone you love more than God, I mean, I was going to say, you give yourself.”
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