FEED ME, I'M YOURS
I'm counting fucking pennies again, which is defeatist. I'm psyching myself up for nothing- the bodega isn't going to take them, the dealer won't take them and I don't have the penny rolls to redeem them at the bank. It makes me feel like I'm making progress though and it’s a way to relieve the nervous energy.
I spent my last ten bucks half an hour ago. Dumped the dope it got me into a cooker I'd been using the night before for some really good coke. The left over coke turned out to be better then the new dope. I'm edgy, with every sensation amplified. Especially the want for more dope. The coke in my cells is acting as a need alarm clock and I need more heroin to flip the switch to sleep.
My head feels like it is gonna explode, and my mood fluctuates from self-confident Rambo to should of been aborted loser shmuck. I have a permanent hard on.
Wendy should be home soon. I keep telling myself she will see me, understand, hand over the cash for a bag and pat me on the head as I go out the door. This scenario could be considered a head in the clouds drug induced delusion. For now, this wanton fantasy of Wendy's open cash infused hand keeps me warm.
I smell like copper and I'm sucking down cigarettes so fast I think I could have an asthma attack, if I wasn’t already feeling like I was having a heart attack. Damn that coke was good, in a good bordering on calamity type of way.
When Wendy was still getting high, she never minded my lecherous "Feed me I'm yours" infantile charm. When she was still using I had a purpose. I'd go out and cop the drugs, she'd hang by the window, waiting, like a seaman’s wife, for her husband to come back from a voyage at sea with a pirates bounty. I was her fetch boy. Who cares if she was basically paying for all the shit then, too. Women like to be taken care of too much.
Since she is no longer getting high (read,"for now") she likes to think she’s achieved some kind of higher evolutionary plane. Of course this annoys me, but I find relief in knowing she’s deluding herself. Her pretension is only temporary. Life sucks and she will get high again.
I can hear her heels in the hallway now. Even her shoes condescend. CLICK-CLICK-CLICK- "I think you need to give NA another try." CLICK-CLICK-CLICK, "I met this guy Waldo at the Prayer Circle who I think you could really relate too..."
With every step she takes the blood raises another inch towards my head. Its the nervous anticipation of confrontation time. She opens the door, turns to take the key out of the lock, and I'm already in front of her, eyeing her bag. She knows.
"Don't even friggin’ ask me, Tom!" (All I hear is the continuing CLICK-CLICK of those shoes and all I see is her red mouth opening and closing in a way I don't like, ones mouth does not look that way and ones face doesn't betray such disgust when what’s being verbalized is "Here Tom, take all my cash and why not my ATM card, too....")
"Oh come on!" I start to mouth back, pointing to my pathetic mound of pennies,"I have the money, I just can't cash it in..."
"That not my problem." Her verbal hole hisses as she makes her way towards the living room.
I am no longer in the mood to play this game.
I make a lunge for her bag and it falls from her shoulder. A cut to the chase, if you will.
"You fucking asshole!" Her serpent tongue spits as she throws herself to the ground trying to carpet her bag with her body.
She is on her hands and knees, pathetically trying to hoist herself onto her feet,( unable to lift herself back up because of those fucking shoes) and fight me off at the same time. She tries to knock me backwards, using her ass as a battering ram. It is trully a comedy of errors. She is a drama queen.
I reach around and grab her above her stomach, my hands finding a comfortable area of flesh to grab onto in the form of her tits. I use them to steer her onto my lap.
"Why do you have to be such a cunt?" I yell, squeezing her breasts, my handlebars for holding her into place. "Now was this fucking worth it? You know I always win..."
My dick is starting to throb through my pants, enticed by her warm ass. Still holding her by one tit so she can't squirm, I reach down under her skirt, move her underwear out of the way, and stick three fingers into her warm box. She shudders in mock surprise and rocks back, grinding into my lap. I move my other hand from her tit and use it to cover her mouth, before completing this maneuver though, I grab her bag and toss it under the couch, knowing it will be safe there.
She bits down on my hand and as I flinch and reflexively move away, she turns her head and spits into my face. My skin has begun to crawl with the onset of dope sickness and her spit seems to glide along with it as the outbreak of goose pimples spreads.
I knock her out of my lap and back onto the floor. I hold her head down into the tile and again move her underwear to the side.
This time there is no tension. I corkscrew my clenched fist into her cunt. She groans, on her hands and knees, thrusting her hips deeper into my knuckles. Its better to play nice.
My dick feels like it is going to fucking explode. I grab her hair and pull her head back, her mouth hangs agape.
"You'd probably bite it off, wouldn't you?" She’s somewhere else, in a land of hands in holes.
I unleash my missile, now a real ticking time bomb, and ram it in her hole, her underwear now firmly embedded in the crack of her ass. With one hand on her hip and the other back to covering her mouth, I plunge to depths worthy of Cousto.
I think of her cunt as a piggie bank, with each jab a quarter falling out........
Fiona Helmsley was inspired by Richard Kern films and some of the men she has known during her years of drug use. She's clean and sober now but tends to tap into her drug years frequently in her writing. She lives in Old Saybrook, Connecticut.
fionahelmsley@yahoo.com.
http://www.myspace.com/fionahelmsley
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