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It looks like any other doorway along a row of shops, although the stairs wind down. Two of three landings, I feel like the path led to a space underneath the street, although I can’t imagine that being allowed.
The downstairs is laid out like a maze. A couple dollars entry and you’re in. Thin, teen, natural blonde, good teeth, money; all the things that make me attractive outside of here stop applying the second I hear automated latch on the metal door unclick. Once I’m inside the only things that make me worth looking at are my cock, my mouth, my ass and my pulse.
I walk down the dark hallways. Each room I go past has the flickering glow of a television screen inside flashing across someone’s face through the open door. Some of them sit on the edges of their couches with their hands on their knees, the way you’d wait for news of a loved one in the emergency room. Others lean back on the filthy cracked leather couches with their pants around their ankles. All of their eyes make instant contact with mine as I walk by. I get my pick.
I see others walking in front and behind me entering doors and closing them behind. Some have left the door open with two occupants. I care about nothing right now. I want to get fucked; I want someone to give me that scrap. Or maybe I want to be treated like the piece of trash I feel like.
I’m a mess. I was perfect, and we were perfect together. His dark eyes and handsome face. His strong hands holding mine. Then he left, and my structure began to collapse – the grades slipping, the sleep gone. And now I’m here at the bottom of the world.
He leans over the table. “You know I love you and always will, right?” My heart is torn apart. I know this conversation. “But listen, you and I, we need to talk.” I know it’s permanent.
I see a black guy, maybe late twenties, leaning back on the couch in his room. His red track suit is a bit dingy, the top unzipped with no other shirt underneath, and the track pants bottoms crowded awkwardly around one of his ankles, the other foot naked and free and legs spread apart. He doesn’t look at me, so I stop and peer in through the door ajar. The images of porn on his screen send colours flying across his face.
I scramble. I start crying. I start begging. I never thought I would act this way. “Please don’t leave me. Please. I really don’t think I could handle it Lets think about this.” His gaze goes to the wall. “Don’t do this to yourself,” he says “I can’t watch you like this, it’s embarrassing.” I continue to cry, and he leaves.
He still doesn’t look at me, so I step into his room. I am shaking. I kneel down directly in front of him and he shifts himself over to look beyond me at the television screen. I reach my hand out in front of me and can barely make use of my dexterity. The air coursing through this place is so cold; my fingers are freezing. I feel like there is sand coursing through my veins.
A day goes by from him leaving the table. I haven’t left the room. This is my moment, my creative burst. This is the beginning of the creative process. I convince myself that my pain can be used for good, and my pain can be used to write. I write about him, his pain. I write about how awful it must be to inhabit his skin, and when I exhaust that I begin to write about me, and how awful it is to be on the floor of my kitchen wiping tears onto a t-shirt he gave to me.
Before I can touch him he grabs my shoulder and pushes my face down onto his crotch. I choke and sputter, but he doesn’t care. I don’t either.
I spend hours in front of my laptop, typing. I don’t sleep. I get it wrong every time. I can’t hit the moment, I can’t hype up my pain. I can’t translate my feelings.”I’m not sure you loved me. I’m not sure you can love me.” It’s all shit.
The black guy stands. He holds me underneath the backs of my armpits and I am laying face down on the couch, my face pressed into the cracked leather. The foam bursting from underneath is soaked with the sweat of him and the countless others who have laid there today, yesterday, and before.
There is the disgusting moment when I realize that no great novel will come out of my pain. My emotions don’t funnel into beauty. My emotions mean nothing to anyone but me.
His big hand presses into my back, my neck and my cheek all at once. I am breathing heavy as he yanks off my jeans. We both still have shirts on. I hear him spit into his palm and I make some noises so he knows I’m ready.
As I delete everything I pass across something. “I worry that I have come to a full realization of you.”
I bite into my lip and hold in a yelp as he pushes himself into me. I want this, no complaining. My thoughts split into two streams. One asks me what I’m doing, why I’m here, what is wrong with me. The other half maintains the beat of the moment, as unsexy as it is – I know I want this. Harder. Deeper.
“Don’t come inside.” The only words I had said to him yet. Within ten seconds of my request, he finishes on my back, pulls up his pants and leaves. I stay in the awkward position for a moment longer.
“I worry that I have come to full realization of you, and you’ve done the same with me. And that is why you are leaving.”
I hate myself.
