Any Girl, Any Guy

Any Girl, Any Guy

She looks at me with fuck in her eyes; a pulsing flicker of uninhibited desire that’s tough to miss, even at our level of intoxication. It’s got all the shock of a cattle prod, but with the opposite effect.

She puts her hand on my arm as she throws her head back and laughs. She continues to smile as she orders another drink, stirring it briskly before sensing my understanding. Like some telepathic blowjob, we both know where eventuality will lead us: two bodies twisting on a bed or a couch or a kitchen floor; two walking clichés begging to make something of this night. 

She finishes her drink before I finish mine, like it’s some assertion of dominance. She leaves a single ice cube in her mouth, clicking it around with her tongue between her teeth, finally crushing it and swallowing. Some psychologist would tell you this is symbolic, but you can read into anything if you give your eyes enough time to adjust. 

She knows I’m in her pocket now. She can see me guessing at her intentions, hoping for the worst. She encourages me to finish my drink so she can show me her new apartment. I’m picturing it already: a respectable studio in Williamsburg that screams Ikea and reeks of Yankee Candle. The estrogenic qualities are inescapable, with the exception of the one obligatory corner devoted to her favorite sports team—undoubtedly the Yankees in this case—which is really just an obvious sign of feeble attempts at male bonding. Or maybe daddy issues. Either way, I sincerely doubt she’s watched an entire game this season. 

I gulp the rest of my drink down and we make a quiet exit to her car, which is parked right out front. She is clearly too drunk to drive, but assures me her place is just a few minutes away. This proves to be true as we pull up in front of some unremarkable Brooklyn apartment building a short time later. She kills the engine and leans over drunkenly to stick her tongue in my mouth. Apparently we have abandoned subtlety and seduction. The kiss says it all: we’re going to fuck like sloppy drunk idiots and there will be no breakfast in the morning. There might not even be a morning. 

I reciprocate the kiss. My vodka-soaked tongue wrestles her gin-soaked tongue. It’s not passion, it’s desperation, but it’ll do for now. 

After no more than a minute or two, we’re leaving the car and quickly ascending the building’s steps. We don’t talk until we’re inside the stairwell, making our way up to her apartment. She grabs my hand with a surprising degree of affection and says “second floor.”

She leads me up to her apartment, telling me how her landlord is a family friend, so rent is cheap. As she opens her door, I can already smell the candles: something like vanilla, but milder. Pulling me in and quickly closing the door, she throws her arms around my neck and pulls my face to hers. This kiss is slightly more connected, but we still manage to spill drunken slobber beyond the outskirts of each other’s lips.

She pulls away abruptly and sort of skips over to the small kitchen table. I take this quick moment to observe that I was dead-on regarding my expectations for her apartment. My only mistake being the solitary corner dedicated to the Mets, not the Yankees. I’m mildly disenchanted until I hear her call my attention to the kitchen table. 

And oh how the unexpected can be so pleasant sometimes!

She’s got blow! Something slightly short of an eight ball by the look of it. She even makes some all-too-familiar crack about the eight ball’s all-knowing abilities. I laugh like I haven’t heard that play on words on at least seven or eight separate occasions; each person delivering the line thinking they were witty or original. 

The whole time she’s talking, my eyes don’t move from the pile of white powder sitting on a dinner plate. She continues to talk as she uses a razor to break a chunk off a sizeable rock. She breaks it up expertly into six lines. She takes a small straw off the plate and makes quick work of two of the lines. Yes, she knows her way around the devil’s dandruff. 

She lures me over to her with the straw, pulling it away as I go to reach for it and using my own momentum to intercept my face with hers. This is all very cute, but she’s the one with the coke already lighting up her synapses like a pinball machine, and I’m the one whose buzz is wearing off. Nonetheless, I play her game and kiss her aggressively. Maybe the harder I kiss her the quicker she’ll give up the straw. At least that’s the assumption I’m operating under. 

She finally pulls her face away with a knowing smile. She leans over and does a third line. I mean what kind of fucking hostess is she? Does she think I enjoy standing here with half a hard-on watching her treat herself to some of my favorite poison? Un-fucking-believable! 

After another quick makeout session, she hands me the straw. Without any hesitation or even a “thank you” I’m putting the drug up my nose… and wow! This girl has some good fucking blow! No wonder she’s so goddamn chipper.  

She kicks her shoes wildly into the corner then picks up the plate of coke. I’m feeling pretty blasted now, pleasantly high, not tweaking, and I’m affectionate. I grab her from behind--careful not to offer enough turbulence to make problems for the plate--and start kissing her neck. I taste the blow dripping down the back of my throat along with the taste of her sweet perfume. I hadn’t smelled it earlier in the evening. The scent had faded, but the perfume clung stubbornly to her skin. The combination of flavors isn’t all-together enjoyable, but not unpleasant either.

I back off and give her room to walk. She makes her way across the living area and to her bed. She puts the plate down on her nightstand and scoops a little bump up with one of her manicured nails. She puts it under my nose and I give a quick sniff. Ah, the pleasures of selflessness! She then rewards herself with one and shortly after, we’re getting to it. She mentions something about a joint, but I’m already pulling her blouse over her head then moving south to the button of her skin-tight jeans. I kiss just below her naval and quickly pull her pants off. Cute thong: plain black, but complimentary and sexy. Thank God it matches her bra. It shows both class and coordination. 

We’re on the bed in no time, slobbering, penetrating, licking, sucking, kissing, moaning. The sex is selfish, on both accounts. Pleasuring the other is purely inadvertent. But we both cum and the night is fairly young. There’s a plate of good blow and apparently pot somewhere.  She offers me a drink and I accept. I figure I’ll wait until she returns to take out the weed, that way I don’t have to go rummaging through her drawers. I don’t have the patience and sometimes people keep their stash in a pretty tucked-away place. 

She returns with two drinks, handing one to me. I take a few large gulps and put the glass on the nightstand next to the plate of coke. She does the same then makes her way over to the dresser. She’s still naked and I realize what an incredible body she has: petite and curvy. Her ass is round and tone and her tits jiggle slightly as she opens the top drawer and removes a small jewelry box. She takes out a cigarette-sized joint and lights up, taking three hits and then passing it to me. Her exhaled smoke lingers long enough to meet mine. The pot tastes good, nothing exceptional, but certainly better than average. 

She scoops up another bump of blow, puts it up her nose then lies down on the bed next to me. I hand her the joint. I’m thinking now’s as good a time as any, but the pot’s stronger than I thought and I’m starting to feel mellowed. I picture rolling her on her back and kissing her gently for a few minutes. Her eyes are closed so she doesn’t notice as I quietly grasp a pillow and move it over her face. It takes realization a moment to set in, then she struggles, but I’m straddling her now, applying almost all my weight to the pillow, each end of the pillow grasped tightly and pressed to the bedsheets. It doesn’t take long for the struggle to weaken and eventually cease. I can see all this in my mind’s eye, but the weed has really done a number on me. Fucking pot! I tell myself over and over to never get stoned before the big moment, but I never listen. 

Wow, I’m fucked up, and not in a good way. The room is starting to spin and I’m starting to feel plastered to the bedsheets. She’s still talking and smiling, telling some story about the dealer she gets all her drugs from who is “just the best.” I try to keep up appearances. I don’t want her to know what a wreck I am. This is bad. So fucking bad. 

I shift my head (which feels like it weighs a ton) to look at the drink on the nightstand. Fucking bitch! Oh this fucking bitch! How could I have been so wrong about this one? How did intuition escape me in such a detrimental way? I can’t even speak now. The words fall from my mouth like weighted marbles.

Hearing my mumbling she stops her story mid-sentence and looks over to me. She’s smiling ear to ear, looking at me with a sense of triumphant pride. Oh this fucking cunt! How did this sly bitch get me? I think she better fucking kill me; she just better fucking kill me or I’ll mail her goddamn tits to her fucking father! 

The room starts to get dark around her. I’m completely incapacitated. She won’t kill me while I’m passed out. She’ll use the time to tie me up and wait until I come to. She’ll want me awake. What’s the point of killing someone in their sleep? 

She’s still smiling. Her lips are moving, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I’m starting to think I might love this bitch. I mean it’s tough not to be impressed. I wonder if she knows what I am, but I figure she has no idea. Coincidence can be a strong ally or a powerful enemy. Her face begins to darken and this beautiful fucking bitch-angel-demon leans down and kisses me on the forehead. She pushes my hair back and does it one more time before I lose total consciousness. As I fade away I realize I was right about one thing: there will be no morning.

 

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