Sunday, May 17, 2009

Stoned Date

Surprised I wanted it, your kiss, after you flashed your dick at me. Don't want to see it. Not now, not like this. Rambling on about how you know people. Two young women dressed for summer walk in front of us, stop and talk unembarrassed. Think we won't listen.

"Look," you say, " She wants it, but the other chick is playing hard to get. Like you."

Thought in my head, "Better than thinking I'm pumping you for info."

The womangirls leave. You go on and on, rambling about everything and nothing. I want to leave now - but not really.

"Kiss me now before I change my mind."

For a hot millisecond, you roll your eyes as if, "Finally - Hey, she wasn't listening to me - She wants a kiss."

Lips touch first. Hands find their way to your muscle, to my softness. Lips part. You lift my hand to your lips, kissing my fingers. I pull away. I don't want to let you like me that much. I don't want to like you that much. But, oh, the kiss was nice. I expected a covered, sloppy mouth, but you were skillful, manipulative, full of intent. Glad you brushed your teeth first. I don't like overwhelming cigarettes.

Neither of us wants to be here now. To your place. Nice, clean, simple. I prefer simple houses. Get lost in the big, fancy ones, especially the ones with hidden passages and double doors.

Turn on the tv, like that is supposed to entertain me while you light a cigarette and change your clothes, half in front of me, half in the bedroom. Like Cris Angel, you disappear for a while when I thought you were right there. The glass table is interesting. I like that there are not many distractions. Except you come back and ask me what is on the tv. For the third time, I tell you that I do not watch tv often.

So you pick up your cell phone and play with it, put it down. No, I do not want soda, juice, water, nothing. I am not thirsty. I want my shoes on. You pick up my feet and take them off. You do not know that I need to be in control of my own body. The last man to take my shoes, my red tennis shoes with tiny Tweety birds all over them, he took them and threw them into the great Atlantic. I never saw them again. My pretty red shoes. I was so mad. My four year old mouth screamed profanities at him. Wanted to run at him, but I did not because I knew. And I was not in physical danger. Never started the physical violence, but even at four, I would not take it without a fight.

My shoes, black, silver, pink, running shoes sitting to the left of the glass table now. Not thrown, sitting neatly. Still, I am uncomfortable, failing to hide it. Unsure whether to move closer to me, you pick up the cell again. Play with the wires, to make it charge or something. You are sexy in your t-shirt and shorts, but your words are beginning to slur, come faster, and your eyelids are drooping, the whites of your eyes beginning to glow red. You said you didn't take anything. You might figure out your phone if you turn on a light.

Before I can say so, you tell me how much you like eating pussy, how you would eat my pussy so good. How much I am going to like it. As you talk, your eyes point at me, at the bedroom, at me again, and again. Stand up and walk to the bedroom door, telling me how all the women want you, they beg you. You never have to ask them for sex. You ask them "Are you sure you want this?" How polite of you. "And they always say 'give it to me' while they pull my hips into them." Come back, sit down, play with your phone again.

Your eyes. I barely see you now behind these stranger's eyes, looking at me. Stripping me.

"You don't seem well," I say, "You look high."

Deny. Get up. Stand over me. Lean down... Hold my face, not forceful, in your hands, and lay one on me. Tongue, lips, neck answer, but the rest is fear frozen. I know you are on something, and pull away. Back to the cell phone.

Not listening to your stoned ramble. My shoes. I don't want to leave them. If I start to put them on, you will take them. I don't want you to manhandle me again. My tae kwon do will do nothing here, just the two of us. You high. Can I find my way out? I ask you about your cell phone. You already told me what you were doing, but you don't remember that part, you are so out of it. Try to look behind me without looking behind me at the kitchen where we came in together. Sometimes I get turned around in small, simple houses, too. Shit.

You're still talking, head drooping. Cigarette dangling. I bet you would fall over if you tried to stand up too fast. How much longer till your patience runs out or you pass out? I cannot bet on that.

Single motion - grab shoes, run out the kitchen door. Look back once like Lot's wife. You sit, a pillar of life's salt with bloodshot eyes, not surprised. More like "That was a smooth move. Damn, you got one over on me."

Good, left was right. And I didn't fumble the door knob. Car's right there; he's not chasing. But my socks run anyway across the grass. Don't drop the keys. There's not enough light from the telephone pole for them to shine down in the black grass. Push the key fob. Can't believe I ever said they were a novelty. Lock the door. Drive, dammit. Don't think about it. Just drive.

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