creep (short fiction)

This is the new revision of, "emerging," I changed the narration and I really like the way it turned out. Would love any feedback!

Creep



The Other looks at me and as such he holds the secret of my being, he knows what I am. Thus the profound meaning of my being is outside of me, imprisoned in an absence. The Other has the advantage over me.
Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness



Morgan had thrown practically the entire contents of her closet on to the bed. Every single pair of jeans pushed the flesh of her hips into bulges that spilled over the belt, under the unyielding waist band. Morgan remembered hearing the condition be described as, “front butt.” She sighed as her phone alerted to her a call with the plaintive tones of Radiohead. “I don’t care if it hurts, I wanna have control…”
“Okay, fine. Fuck. Pick me up in an hour.” Her voice sounded raspy with defeat. Morgan wanted nothing less than to be in bed watching the final episode of, “Battle Star Galactaga,” for only the sixth time. She always cried when Starbuck becomes an angel and flies into the sun. Morgan gnawed on her finger nails and contemplated what compelled her to let her best friend talk her into going to this holiday party. Whatever it was, it infected her deepest insides and drained the color and flavor out of every blushing rose or sweet jasmine that might have thrived ever in her own life.
Only three days before Morgan had gone to the doctor to get her yearly pap smear and breast pummeling from the 68 year old Persian doctor who was the only doctor on her HMO that had any sort of decent parking on the west side. In his thick accent blasting breath that smelled like cigars, soil, garlic and goat cheese, he told her that although Morgan’s cholesterol and heart seemed fine right now, if she didn’t lose some serious weight she would be, “In trouble.” He said she had an eating disorder and recommended that she go to Overeater’s anonymous. Shaking his head at her chart, he clicked his tongue and told her that her triglycerides were high and that is the kind of fat that is in cake and chocolate. He patted her on her belly and asked her how many slices of pizza she was hiding in there. Morgan had never heard of Overeater’s Anonymous so she googled it that very evening, in the privacy of her studio apartment which overlooked a dirty alley but was by the beach, and found a meeting to go to that very night.
The meeting was held at the YWCA. It was a small brown building that housed a daycare, and the meeting took place in what looked to be a kindergarten classroom. The walls were covered with cardboard animals and their names, construction paper cut outs of yellow, blue, red and green, topped off with the alphabet that looked down upon the various women who were there. Morgan was puzzled because although there were some women of size in the room, many of the women were actually perfectly thin. The bigger ones were talkative and chatted with other big women while the slight ones sat quietly with their eyes pointed downward. A pale woman who was shaped like an overstuffed Christmas stocking and dotted with rusty freckles smiled down at Morgan.
“Is this the OA meeting?” she asked inquisitive, aqua eyes framed by electrically charged orange hair.
“Oh yes, you’re in the right place. They put all of us fatties with the anorexics and bulimics because we all have eating disorders. Unfortunately, they have the kind that makes them perfect and we have the kind that makes us like huge, ugly, eyesores to like, everyone else, right?” She winked at Morgan like this was a secret that was now in her trust.
At least the skinny ones were doing the world a favor by making themselves the painted canvas of feminine, barely there attractiveness that society holds so very dear, even though they are told they are sick for trying so hard. As if everyone else isn’t trying to do the same thing one way or another. Overdeveloped outsides wrapping around their underdeveloped insides, thought Morgan to herself. She felt like a very different beast entirely. She was worse than lazy. She was selfish for not conforming to what was declared beautiful, seeing but uncaring of the blithe she was imposing on eyes narrowed in scrutiny as she walk down the cracking sidewalks and sat self consciously in straight, fragile, plastic chairs.
Instead of transforming food into energy, Morgan’s body transformed it into walls. Borders upon borders of flesh that most would not dare to cross. Layers that shield from any form of outward intimacy. Her body was a fortress. Morgan effectively hid her treasures, showing to the world only bulging, dimpled flesh. The frail, tiny anorexics looked at the compulsive overeaters a bit fearfully, as if they might slurp them up at any given moment. Morgan never went back.
“Shit,” she said. Morgan’s best friend was going to be there in ten minutes and she was still standing naked over her hills of clothing. She sighed and settled on wearing what she always wore. A faded, black, long sleeve shirt, paired with a dark, olive green skirt that pretty much swept the ground when she walked. She covered this with an oversized hoodie, also a faded black, completing what looked to be a hippie-ghetto burka.
“I see you dressed in your usual camouflage,” said her best friend as Morgan emerged from the front door.
“It is a war zone out there.” She replied back promptly.
Her best friend threw her arms around her and squeezed a quick hug. As Morgan pulled away, she reached over and brushed a strand of dark hair out of Morgan’s small eyes. “Well c’mon then. We’ll smoke a joint on the way and you’ll feel better by the time we get there.”
As they passed the joint in the car, Morgan’s best friend babbled her gripes with her boyfriend. When she first introduced him to Morgan, she said that Morgan really needed to meet this guy and start getting out and dating again. She said he was Morgan’s dream guy and so Morgan agreed to go with him to see a local band. Morgan didn’t wonder why her best friend insisted on coming too, since it was a good band. Dream guy was kind, handsome, and played steel string guitar. His long hair framed big, chocolate eyes and his skin was rich like a mocha latte drink. Morgan liked him immediately and something stirred inside that she hadn’t felt in such a long time.
“I told you.” Said her best friend, “If I wasn’t married I’d be all over him in a hot second.”
As night ticked away into morning, Morgan sat alone at the bar tossing back shots of cheap tequila. Her best friend and dream guy had been making out on the sawdust dance floor for the past 45 minutes. Her best friend stumbled over while he went to the bathroom. “ I knooooooooow, I’m a Biisssshhhhhhh. Zshoooo hate me? Pleeeeeeeeeeeash don’t hay meeeeee.” Pitiful eyes were threatening to spill more than beer.
“I don’t hate you. I just think that you are completely fucking retarded. But I don’t hate you.” That was a year and a half ago, now Morgan’s best friend is separated from her husband, and is living with dream guy in a two bedroom house with a pool and a palm tree in the back yard.
The party took place in a retail store. In the front of the store was a hot pink, tinsel tree. The dirty cement floor had been painted with green and gold glitter and a fold up table with wine, crackers and cheese was displayed next to the cash register. Morgan made her way towards the table and busied herself with the task of pouring some red into a plastic glass.
As she adjusted her gaze upwards, she saw something that immediately turned her stomach into a brick. It was William. William was her best friend’s uncle. Seven years ago, when Morgan was working out of a seedy club next to railroad tracks and the freeway, Uncle Will came in and she ended up going home with him. She had always wanted to fuck him and she knew he had his eye on her, it seemed like the perfect place to explore the kind of fantasies that can only be played out on another’s body. She had played the role of the shy sex object and he played the role of the L.A. prince who could whisk a girl away from all of the filth. He pretended he could love her and she pretended that his dick wasn’t smaller than a light-flow tampon. She also pretended to cum multiple times. Morgan wasn’t sure why she had put on such a performance, maybe trying to make him feel good about himself. She went home before the sky exploded in pinks and yellows by the waking sun. He called her two weeks later which seemed insulting to Morgan at the time. She never returned his call.
“Morgan?” he asked.
“That’s me.” She smiled and tried not to look like a person about to jump overboard.
“I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“I know,” she replied, “I’ve put on a few pounds.” His mouth did not respond so she quickly added, “Wow! It’s been forever, hasn’t it? How have you been?”
“Great,” he finally smiled. “I’m married now.”
“Cool.”
“How about you?” He was still looking at Morgan in this half puzzled, half concerned way and his voice dropped. It made her despise him intensely even though she knew he was a nice guy.
“Yah, it’s um, really great. Really great!” Morgan knew what was coming next.
“I heard something bad happened to you?”
“Yah, well, I was raped. But, I’m fine now, that was a pretty long time ago.” But never long enough for her to forget the feeling of that pressure on top of her, that drilling into her, poisoning her well. He had tried to make her look at him. She smiled even wider to reassure Uncle Will that everything was indeed, great.
“Well, I’m sorry that happened to you. If you need anything…”
“Yes, yes, thanks. I’m fine, really. Um, excuse me for a minute?” Morgan began to back away and accidently bumped into the flimsy table, knocking a bottle over. The dark red Chianti pushed its way through the nice, white linen covering the cheap table and Uncle Will grabbed the bottle and tried to confine the spill. Morgan turned and made her way towards the bathroom. Her best friend intercepted her with wide eyes and a sheepish grin.
“Oh my gawd oh shit, honey! Uncle Will!” she giggled apologetically. “I swear I didn’t know he was going to be here. Fuck! He never said he was coming, I swear!”
Morgan pushed past her. She felt like she was burning up. Something rose within her that was primitive, hurling her body towards the doors. Her numb hands pushed the glass and it gave way into the crisp night. The darkness reflected nothing back to her and so she fixed her eye on the darkest spot in the furthest distance, and she began to walk towards it.

emerging (short fiction)

“Okay, fine. Pick me up in an hour.” My voice sounded defeated. I hated people. I really hated Christmas. I hated my best friend for making me go to this retail Christmas party, when I could be in bed watching the final episode of , “Battle Star Galactaga,” for only the sixth time. I always cry when Starbuck becomes an angel and flies into the sun.

Shit, she was going to be here in ten minutes. I had thrown practically the entire contents of my closet on the bed. Not one pair of jeans would fit. The doctor shook his head at me the last time I was sitting on his table. In his thick, Persian accent blasting old man breath, he said I had to lose weight. He said I had an eating disorder and told me I needed to go to Overeater’s anonymous. I actually went. They put all of us fat, compulsive eaters in the same room with the bulimics and anorexics. We all had eating disorders they said. I was just lucky enough to have the kind that makes you a huge, ugly, eyesore to society.

At least the skinny ones were doing the world a favor by making themselves the picture of feminine, barely there attractiveness that society holds so very dear, even though they are told they are sick for trying so hard to get that acceptance from other people. As if everyone else isn’t trying to do the same thing. Overdeveloped outsides wrapping around their underdeveloped insides. The fatties, however, we are very different beasts entirely. We are worse than lazy. We are selfish and nonconforming to society’s standard of beauty, uncaring of the blithe we are imposing on eyes narrowed in scrutiny as we walk down cracking sidewalks. We are sick for not trying hard enough for outward validation.

Instead of transforming food into energy we transform it into walls of flesh. Borders that most would not dare to cross. Layers upon layers that protect us from any form of outward intimacy. Our body becoming something that we can hide behind, showing to the world only bulging, dimpled flesh, becoming invisible underneath it. The frail, tiny anorexics looked at us compulsive eaters fearfully, as if we would slurp them up at any given moment.

I sighed and settled on wearing what I always wear. A faded, black, long sleeve, knit shirt with a dark, olive green skirt that pretty much scraped the floor when I walked. I covered this with an oversized hoodie, also a faded black, completing my modern day burka.

“I see you dressed in your usual camouflage,” said my best friend, who is always trying too much to get me to go out.

“It is a war zone out there.” I replied promptly.

“Well c’mon then. We’ll smoke a joint on the way and you’ll feel better by the time we get there.” She said patronizingly. I tell my friends that pot makes my social phobia better. I even have my card. The truth is that all I want to do is lay in bed, in my bedroom that I painted a deep, endless indigo, whether I was stoned or not.

As we passed the joint in the car, my best friend babbled to me her gripes with her boyfriend. When she first introduced him to me, she introduced him as my dream guy. Certainly he was kind, handsome, and played guitar. His long hair framed big, dark eyes and his skin was rich like a mocha latte drink. I liked him immediately. She wanted us all to go out to the Malibu Inn together to see this amazing singer/songwriter from Hawaii. As we were driving to his house to pick him up, she looked up at me and said that she would want him for herself if she weren’t married. At the show they ended up making out all night long while I tossed back shots of cheap tequila. That was a year and a half ago, my best friend is now separated from her husband, and her and my dream guy are still together.

In the front of the store was a cheap, tinsel tree. The dirty cement floor had been painted with green and gold glitter and a fold up table with wine, crackers and cheese was displayed next to the cash register. I made my way towards the wine and busied myself with the task of pouring into a plastic glass.

I adjusted my gaze upwards and saw something that immediately turned my stomach into a brick. It was William. William was my best friend’s uncle. Seven years ago, when I was a stripper working out of a seedy club off of San Fernando road in Glendale, Uncle Will came in and I ended up going home with him. I had always wanted to fuck him and I knew he had his eye on me, the strip club was a perfect place to explore desires that both of us knew were only topical. I had played the role of the shy sex object and he played the role of the L.A. prince who could whisk a girl away from all of the filth. He pretended he could love me and I pretended that his dick wasn’t smaller than a super absorbent tampon. I also pretended to cum multiple times. I’m not really sure why, I guess I was trying to make him feel good about himself. I went home before the LA sky was dyed pink by the waking sun and he called me two weeks later. I never returned his call.

He was looking at me quizzically. I tried to avert my gaze, to disappear, I was in a panic. Uncle Will began to make his way towards me. Before I knew it, he was a foot away from my face.

“Rachel?” he asked.

“That’s me.” I had nowhere to run.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“I know,” I replied too quickly. “I’ve put on a few pounds. Wow! It’s been forever, hasn’t it? How have you been?”

“Great,” he smiled. “I’m married now.”

‘Um, awesome!” I tried to nod my head in approval but ended up spilling some red wine on my shirt.

“How about you? I hear you have a kid now?” He was still looking at me in this half puzzled, even concerned way. It made me despise him intensely.

“Yah, it’s um, really great. Really great!”

“I heard something bad happened to you.”

“Yah, well, I was raped. But, I’m fine now, that was a pretty long time ago.” I smiled even more to reassure him that everything was indeed great.

“Well, I’m sorry that happened to you. If you need anything…”

“Yes, yes, thanks. I’m fine, really. Um, excuse me for a minute?” I began to back away and accidently bumped into someone. I turned and made my way to the bathroom. My best friend intercepted me with big eyes and a sheepish grin.

“Oh my god, honey. Uncle Will!” she giggled. “ I swear I didn’t know he was going to be here!”

I nodded and kept walking. I passed the bathroom and kept going until I was out of the store, blanketed in the crisp, LA air that signaled winter in Southern California. I fixed my eye on the darkest spot in the furthest distance and began to walk towards it.

the stripper pulp experiment...

Chapter 1



We nighttime girls called the day shift at the club the dog shift. Everyone knows that the ugly girls are hired for the day shift. They usually had to be extra sluttish in order to make any cash. I was confident that my 600-dollar hair extensions, sweet smile and granite ass would blow these "but-her-faces" right off the stage and cash right out of the guys's wallets. It worked well at night, anyway. I brushed on another layer of black mascara and signaled the D.J. that I was ready to go. I asked him to play some Marvin Gaye for me.

The P.A. began to blare, "Let's get it on" and I took my cue, stepping out onto the stage. "…and here comes the beautiful, Marianna! That's right; she'll bake your tamale. Speaking of tamales, gentlemen, don't forget to take advantage of our free lunch buffet over there behind the stage. Yes, we do take good care of you at the Zebra so show your appreciation to your cocktail waitress and of course, the phenomenal and sexy, Marianna!" I was used to this cheesy, racist DJ intro, minus the buffet part of course.

I looked out at my audience and saw only two men sitting in front of the stage. There were five people standing in line at the buffet, but three of them were dancers.

Are they actually eating strip club food? Another dancer named Candy smiled at me before shoving a forkful of macaroni salad into her mouth. I smiled back just to make sure she wouldn't go in the dressing room and try and pee on the lipstick I had left on the counter. You never know about these Dog shift girls.

I twirled around the brass pole and landed on my knees in front of the first guy. He scratched his head and leaned forward with anticipation. Slowly, I untied the back of my mesh bikini top and tossed it on the floor. As his mouth widened in a grin, a piece of stray, fried chicken fell from his lips onto the stage. Hmmm. Attractive. I turned around and bent over to give him the canyon view and hide the look of disgust on my face. Closing my eyes helped me get into the music and I went through my routine.

As the song ended, I crawled on all fours up to the chicken guy. Wearing my most seductive smile I said, "Hey baby, wanna private dance?"

"Is it two for one?" He replied.

"No."

"That's okay. I'll wait."

I opened my mouth to protest but instead decided to give up. I picked up the dollar he had left next to his plate and approached the only other guy at the stage. Before I could even finish my one sentence pitch, he shook his head and said, "No English."

Not a stellar beginning. I tossed my two dollars onto the dressing room counter and slumped into a plastic chair. It wasn't even 1:30 but I needed a drink. Just then, the dressing room curtain parted and the club owner, Fat Mike, sauntered through. Fat Mike was an older Persian man, who squeezed into the same, fancy Armani suit day after day. He had recently bought the club from the previous, Armenian owners who sold it to him for exactly one million. I think he got it so cheap because he agreed to launder their coke money through the club.

He was always very friendly but most of us tried to steer clear of him. He was known to occasionally take a new dancer into his office for a "meeting". I had seen a few new girls go into his office and not come back out for a long time. When they did, they usually didn't come back into the club to work or worse, left crying. No one actually said what happened in there but the rumor was that he had a bottle of Patron spiked with GHB sitting on his oversized, oak desk.

"Marianna!" He cheered and kissed me on the cheek. "I am so happy that you come in day shift! But Why? You do very good at night."

"I'm leaving for Hawaii tomorrow and I need spending cash." I replied.

"And how much spending cash does a pretty girl like you need on vacation?"

"At least two grand if I want to have any fun."

"Ah, but there are easier ways to make that money, Marianna." He began to massage my shoulders with his meaty hands. They smelled like garlic.

"Yes there are but you know I like to keep it clean, Mike."

He laughed and patted my shoulder. "Such a good girl you are. But if you ever want to become bad, well, let me know and I can make you much money, my dear."

"I'll make sure I do that, Mike." I shot him a fake smile.

"You know, you are not supposed to smoke in here, sweetie. It against the law now. But if you want to, you can come back to my office and smoke. Relax and have a drink until more customers come."

Immediately, I put my cigarette out on the dressing room counter. "I think there are some new customers," I said, and walked out of the room.

It was time to make some cash.

"Hey baby, want me on your lap naked?" I methodically worked every guy in the club, from left to right. Not that there were very many. Selling dances was a numbers game, and I would diligently work my way around until one of these numbers flipped and said yes.

"No, thanks," said the first guy.

"Will you do it for ten bucks?" the second guy said. I told him this wasn't a flea market.

I never understood why men never seemed to get the way business works in a strip club. They are supposed to pay, and I am supposed to dance naked for them. It is a very simple concept. Yet, it seems to me that most men think that we dancers are here looking for a mate. Sometimes I'll sit and talk with them for a minute before asking them for a dance. Then they act all hurt and whine that I was just talking to them because I wanted a dance, not because I really liked them. No shit! Whether I like someone or not, I've got bills. I'm here to work. If I were looking for friends, I certainly wouldn't be looking in a strip club. The only friends I'm looking for in here are green and fit in my purse. It doesn't take a brainiac to realize this.

My heart was beginning to sink but then I looked up and saw Bryan coming through the front entrance of the club. Bryan was my regular customer. He has been coming into the club at least three nights a week for the past year and loyally doles out two to three hundred dollars on private dances with me every time. I had called him earlier and told him that I was working the dog shift today. He had found that hilarious and said he would try to make it.

"Bryan, Honey! You made it!" I ran up and gave him a big hug. "Oh baby, you don't even know how glad I am you're here."

"Hey beautiful." He smiled, but I could see that he seemed nervous. Bryan was never nervous. His eyes quickly darted around the place and I noticed that his hands were sweaty.

"Are you okay?" I said, leading him straight to a private dance booth. I could sense the other dancers lurking in the background like hyenas around fresh prey.

"Yes." He said, but I could tell he was lying.

"Let me make you feel better." I sat him down and straddled his lap. Slowly, I began to move my hips back and forth and exposed a nipple two inches from his nose. Usually this made him crazy but he seemed preoccupied. "Hello, boob to Bryan, come in Bryan. Gees baby, are you sure you're okay?"

He looked straight into my eyes and said, "I need to ask you a favor."

"Um. Okay."

"I need you to hold this for me." He pulled a very small key from out of his jacket pocket. "No questions asked. Then I need you to go home."

"What? I can't go home. I just got here and I need to make two grand for my trip tomorrow."

He opened his wallet and counted out twenty one-hundred dollar bills. "Will this suffice?" he said, as he put the cash in my hand. Dazzled by all of the cash, I nodded my head and took the key. I undid the clasp of my necklace and hung the key right next to the tarnished, butterfly pendant that I never ever took off. My sister gave me that necklace. It was a long time ago.

I wondered what the key was for but before I could open my mouth to ask him, he said, "No questions." Then he stood up.

"Don't you want to finish the dance?" I wasn't used to being pushed off someone's lap.

"Baby, you know I love you, but I really can't right now. There is a note that I left in your car that will tell you what to do with the key. After 9 tonight, follow the instructions on the note."

"How do you know which car is mine?"

He laughed and said that he likes to know what kind of car he's been making the payments on. I told him he was a weirdo and escorted him out to the door.

I tipped out the club and grabbed my things out of my locker. I needed to use the bathroom, but it was locked and I could hear two girls sniffing lines behind the door. Candy was checking herself out. She bent over in front of the full-length mirror and adjusted her clit ring. Two small, weighted balls swung from delicate chains that hung from her pierced labia. She noticed me looking and said, "Oh these. I use them for self-defense." she smirked. "You know, you're going to have to use the men's bathroom out there." she pointed out to the public restroom . "Those bitches will be in here for a while."

I decided that I would rather piss my pants than use the public restroom here so I grabbed up my things and walked out towards my car. I checked my 68 mustang over from front to back but I didn't see a note anywhere. Annoyed, I sat down in the driver's seat and called Bryan on my cell. The sound of a ring tone came from my back seat and I almost did piss my pants. What the fuck is that? I grabbed the phone from the back and saw that it was my phone calling it. Written on the touch-screen in permanent marker were the words, "WAIT FOUR SHE NOT."

I sat there for a moment confused and a little scared. Was this the note? How the fuck did he get in my car? However, I was too excited about the two grand in my purse to acknowledge the pang of dread coming from my gut. Aloha bitches! I shrugged off the bad feeling as I backed out. I didn't notice it then, but a black Mercedes with tinted windows silently followed me as I made my way merrily back to my apartment loft in Korea town.

A yucky short fiction piece that slithered it's way outta my brain

Ariadne’s Mark

Mark smiled at the server. “A glass of water, honey,” he said. He looked down at the newspaper in front of him. He figured that stupid woman would probably take a year to get him the fucking water. He didn’t even know if she understood English. Didn’t look like it.

A minute later, he noticed her plain, unmanicured finger nails as she set the glass of ice water in front of him. “Thank you so much,” he said. She wearily smiled back while wiping crumbs off the counter.

“Anything else?”

“Not right now, thank you.”

The server couldn’t prevent the slight eye role. The graveyard shift was always full of bums.

It was three a.m. at Norms Diner and Mark was drunk and exhausted from the anger of being fired from his accounting firm. Arri wouldn’t get off work at the club for another hour and he knew that she was feeling tired. He didn’t want to tell her that he got fired for sexual harassment. The only person sleeping well tonight was probably that bitch, import from butt-fuck India that his firm hired as team manager when he had been in line for the position for the past 6 months. He hadn’t seen her standing behind him when he was telling a co-worker that she probably got the job ‘cause Indian bitches suck good cock. Looking down at the stained counter, he tried to focus his eyes on the newspaper but couldn’t keep them from blurring.

Suddenly, the pocket in his slacks began to vibrate. It was a text from Arri.

Made mucho $$
Wana cm gt me?
Miss u babe!
Xoxo-Ariadne;)

He grabbed a fifth of Jack before jumping in the 1993 mercedes to go get her.

Ariadne planted a huge, soft kiss right on his mouth before throwing her bag in the car and jumping in next to him. She rubbed the inside of his thigh and asked him how his day was.

“Fine until I had to sit here for forty minutes waiting for your ass to come out of that hole.” He didn’t mean to sound so angry.

“I know, I’m sorry but this customer came in and wanted two thousand dollars worth of dances! He tipped me another grand, too.” Ariadne beamed with pride. “I made like five grand tonight, baby!” She began to nibble on his ear lobe. She whispered, “ let’s take a vacation to Mazatlan again! You could do me up against the wall at Senior Frog’s and then we could do it again on the shore with the dolphins watching. Remember that, baby? That was magic. You’re magic, my love.”

She reached for his cock, visibly disappointed that he wasn’t erect. He winced, as normally he’d be hard as granite right now. Sometimes he couldn’t get over the fact that she made so much more money than he did. Especially since he had a fine, college education and came from a good, middleclass family.

“I’m sure you made it worth their while,” he said, as he peeled out of the strip club parking lot. He noticed her eyes sadden as his words came out with a slight, sarcastic sting. He took another swig of Jack. He didn’t mean to sound so angry.


Back at the apartment, Mark grabbed a fistful of Arri’s thick, long, black hair. She was working furiously on him. Using both hands to force him even deeper into her mouth. She knew that’s what he liked best. He pictured it was his bitchy, slut supervisor going down on him. Having no choice about it. Suddenly, pain shot through his cock as Ariadne had gotten a little too carried away, raking his skin with her teeth.

“You dumb, fucking BITCH!” The back of his right hand came down hard on her porcelain cheek. She fell on her side yelping like a small puppy. He had never hit her before. He had never hit anybody before.

“Oh my God,” he said. He instinctively reached out to help her up.

She shrunk away from him, her eyes as black as her hair. Some blood ran from her lip, staining the white carpet. She reminded him of Snow White.

“Get AWAY from me!” She screamed.

“No. I didn’t mean to…” He put his hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her down, but holding her firmly so that she couldn‘t run away.

“HELP!” She was hysterical. Trying to fight him. He wished she would try to understand. He held her even more firmly.

“No, Shhhhhh! No! You don’t - Just shut up for a second, okay!” He reached out to help her. To calm her down. To make her listen. He fucking loved her for Christ’s sake! She wouldn’t stop. He had to make her be quiet before the neighbors heard her screaming. “Shhhhhhh.” She was being quieter now. He realized his hands were locked around her throat. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

He held her now quiet head in his lap. Her eyes were bloodshot and frozen in a look of panic. Her tongue was swollen and blue, forcing itself out between her lifeless, red lips.

Tears wouldn’t come even though he knew that he had extinguished one of the most beautiful lights the world had ever known. He didn’t mean to get so angry. She would have made him the best banana pancakes in the morning. She would have kissed him gently and told him how everything would be all right. She was a rare jewel. She was the type of girl that would do anything for her man. Anything.