Walk of shame; walk of bloody shame. Homegirl didn't know where her panties'd gone, and this time she cared. She was wearing octagonal sunglasses with pinkened lenses, tho, and that helped a little, made her feel untouchable, beyond. She had cottonmouth. She was beyond cottonmouth; she was cottonmouth.
This'd been her sixth time with Richboy and she didn't exactly remember all the details.
She knows he didn't tie her up and let some butch fist her for hours, like she was afraid.
She was almost always afraid of what he'd do and extremely turned on.
The fifth time, when they really didn't have sex, was when she realized she was almost always afraid of him and completely and tot turned on.
Where the hell was her car?
They'd done it for hours last night, she could tell, cos it hurt to walk and that'd only happened a couple of times. Once with Punkboy after they hadn't done it for almost a year and every time with the ex-Marine.
But, Homegirl didn't like to think about the ex-Marine.
So, I'll tell you all about him while Homegirl's looking for her car.
Her panties are in her pocket, by the way. Richboy doesn't need souvenirs; he's got a small surveillance camera set up above his bed that connects with his Mac. He can re-live every moment that he or she forgets.
Richboy doesn't forget that much, tho; he often only pretends he's fucked up. He's got a huge motherfucking tolerance. Boy can drink a fifth of vodka a night; boy drinks only to get fucked up. Richboy doesn't even like the taste of alcohol, that's how bad it is.
Homegirl sometimes likes it and sometimes pretends.
But, back to the ex-Marine . . . he was the second person ever Homegirl slept with. She loved the sex so much she thought she loved him. She thought she loved him so much she wanted him to stay with her always and always; she wanted to give him things; she wanted him to give her things. Any things. Nylons, candy, Japanese fans; she didn't care if he were channeling a WWI or II Marine. Lipstick, hula hoops, riding boots, embossed stationary, handkerchiefs, straight razor, rug burn, any thing would do. Tangible proof that there was some thing there. Tangible proof that he existed. Tangible proof that he'd touched her. Tangible proof that he'd touched her there. Even an STD would do.
Proof he'd been there; proof she could remember forever. She'd wanted him to give her warts cos it wasn't as bad as Herpes but still left scars; she'd still love him; she'd even try to fuck him after a wart-freezing treatment cos he showed up at her house with glitter on him and wanted to fuck.
The glitter was from Art's Performing Center, a downtown strip joint.
Homegirl'd kinda known he was seeing other people, but he fucked oh so good, she couldn't leave him, especially now that she had proof. Now that he'd marked her as his territory; now that his virus'd explored and cartographed and made her his.
It'd hurt so bad for Homegirl because of the coochie freezing that ex-Marine'd be able to tell and he'd stop and say, Let's just cuddle. Cos, deep down he's always been a hooker with a heart of gold.
At least that's what Homegirl's always wanted to think, then, now and foreverever.
He is her heart of gold she's been looking for and he's gone.
She will keep on looking for that feeling that fucking him'd always given.
She'll keep on looking for his heart of gold in all the other mens she meets.
She'd never really wanted him to give her an STD, tho. That was her hyperbole, her melodrama, the part of her that imagines herself in a film noir with seamed stockings and a big hat and even bigger hips and a cigarette holder in an alley with ex-Marine or Richboy or whoever and it's raining but her hat protects her cigarette and her lips are oh so red but oh so black cos it's all in black and white and words are said and it doesn't matter what words are said, the words are said they can't be unsaid but they aren't words you'd wish unsaid anyway cos this is noir fantasy and those words that should never be said and can't be unsaid only and forever exist in reality; the rain and the smoke and the alley and the pouting lips are enough forever, they are more than words, said or wished unsaid.
She did wish the ex-Marine'd stay with her foreverever, but life's one fuck of a bitch who'll show you what you want then laugh and say, Never gonna get it.
Like that fucking En Vogue song, and that's just so wrong on so many levels.
Life's a bitch that laughs at you as you stare into the window of some chi-chi department store and you're a street urchin and you're Oliver fucking Twist and the bad men are gonna make you steal just to stay alive but what you really want is an evening dress and the appropriate soiree to wear it to but life's bored, life's got bad ennui and kicking a girl when she's down is the best possible solution.
Life watches America's Funniest Home Videos in its tidy whities and clubs the dog with a baseball bat for no reason really.
Homegirl likes Richboy cos he's a lot like life.
Homegirl likes Richboy cos she thinks she sees something in him like the ex-Marine.
Something choking down deep that the tongue can unlick from hiding.
There are things in him that say, I will show you things you've never seen.
Homegirl thinks he knows things. That he's one of those people who are living those lives. The lives that we don't know about. The lives where things happen. Where things become and things show and things are unraveled and things are reconstructed and things are more than things. She thinks if she hangs on long enough he will let her see these things, too. She hopes if she can intrigue him long enough he will look for things like love in her; that the love things will naturally lead him to showing her the things she knows he wants to show someone. The love things will be their things; her thing will be to keep him safe and be a place for him to put his hand when he wants to feel some thing and she'll wipe his oily hair from his brow when he's drunk and she'll caress his head always and forever and it will feel like love, this wiping, caressing and being wet thing, and his thing will be to show her the things he knows she would never know, and the showing of these things will also feel like love.
The things like love are what happens between the burlesque dancer, the S&M mistress, and the pierced guy who hangs from hooks after the performances are over and the club closes. The things like love is how bored you have to be to watch scheisse videos or how many kilos of coke it takes to convince a girl to shit on a glass table in front of you. Or how to make people like you without even trying and how to push them away but still keep them coming back. Or how to tap into that mammalian pack mentality and rule people instinctually. Or how many people sleep naked and how many people sleep fully clothed afraid of something entering their orifices in the night. The things like love are how many people at any given time are reading Genet and masturbating vs. how many Acker. What money really means and why privileged white boys are so angsty.
The things like love are also stupid things like how to act like you don't care which knife or fork you should use at dinner. Or how not to care when salad leaves don't behave and stick out your mouth. Or what to say at a family dinner when politics come up and you just don't fucking care or you care too much.
The things like love are also body things. Not just sex; not just the genital slamming genital thing and the ooohing and the sighing and the scrunched up orgasm face thing, but body things like how to get rid of bad breath or how to never have it in the first place. How to brush one's tongue without gagging. How to drink and drink and drink and drink without gaining weight.
Homegirl'd really liked to know the secret of that one.
The ex-Marine probably knew things, too, but the ex-Marine'd thought love things meant protecting his love from those knowing things.
Homegirl wants to be protected and live a nicey-nice life, and Homegirl doesn't. Homegirl doesn't really know what she wants besides someone to wake up to when she wants to and someone who knows when to let her sleep it off alone.
Richboy seems to get it; he seems to get her.
That may be her love things talking, tho.
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