1...2...3...4...I Declare A Post War...

Then he didn't make me suck him, or **** him. He just listened to me tell lies that I read in a Reader's Digest article on hookers. I wanted to slap that look of pity off of his silver spoon fed face.

 

How dare he sit there and judge me. He's never know what it's like to have some sweaty fat slob panting and grunting on top of you while you can't think of anything besides how you're going to get his wallet, or how much longer you have to lie there until you can get a fix. Mommy took care of everything for my little frat boy here.

 

So he walked out the door and is going downstairs. I, on the other hand, am going next door to light up with the hope that he doesn't try to come back in here and find me. That would be a big mistake on his part. He'd better just go on home before the local boys find him and his nice shiny car.


The End.







Ah...who am I kidding? Hookers don't read Reader's Digest. That one sucked. I can do better than that...

 

Any story ideas from the peanut gallery?

 

Fine, then. I'll just start another one.

This one is based on some real life experience...

Let's see.....gotta have a good start...a good beginning is always the key...


________________________________________________________________________

She really believed that this was love, sitting there, surrendered to the hardwood floor and tapping a beat with the soft temple of her head against the plaster wall, matching the drone of dropping water from a leaky bathroom faucet, all the while staring at me with a mix of pathetic hatred and a sort of diffuse wash of non-existence that flowed toward me and around me like the late night fog stealing sight from coastal drivers in Marina Del Ray. She didn't look human, much less like the woman that I had fallen in love with and continued to love against my better judgment for the past three years; sharing a bed with someone I now believed, no, expected to shove a meat cleaver deep in the fold of my breast while I slept. This same person who looked at me with complete devotion not even a day past, now compelled me to set a video camera up in one corner of a room, recording all movement within, and to push my heavy couch over to bar the exit, and give me a place to lie down, in an effort to keep her from running, half-naked, screaming down the center of my neighborhood street. Yes, I thought, it was time for this relationship to end.

 

The morning came to find me sans imbedded knife and breathing quite regularly, with Elayjalon laying on the hard floor like a discarded marionette, arms and legs akimbo, a small puddle of drool like a cartoon speech bubble escaping her mouth. I didn't move. Instead I sat and watched her for a while. She looked like she used to: careless. She had a peacefulness to her that I hadn't seen in years. While I knew her body must be immensely uncomfortable, her face relaxed. I didn't want to wake her, because I knew that once awakened, she would be burdened by all the pain that she loved to live with. She was never happier than when she was fighting desperately to become happy.

 

And what about me? I hadn't been happy in years. Not since summers were too short and playtime ended when I heard my mother blowing her whistle at the end of the block, the shrill sound wrapping around and drilling through even the most obstinate barriers, alerting me to her desire for my immediate presence, had I felt this happy. And how I longed for those long, humid summer nights that I had waded through during my youth in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Where had that little boy gone?

 

In my childhood I still had my fascination with the opposite sex. Unlike the other boys I paled around with, I enjoyed playing dolls and house with the neighborhood girls, not because I liked the games, but because it afforded me more time with them; more time to sit in their perfume and watch them move about. Back then they were harmless creatures that tempted, without knowing, desires I hadn't yet discovered. Oh, how age had added layers to their vintage. No longer a simple flavor, every woman I met now had striations and subtleties that took many years to uncover, and like many a wine on the market today, most left me with a foul taste in my mouth. I really have come to hate the very breathing of women.

 

I never thought of myself as a misogynist. I had always believed that no man on earth could appreciate the wonderful qualities that made a woman what she was. I considered myself a connoisseur of the finer aspects of women, sampling each one not with the youthful naivete of a horny young man, or the arrogant conquering attack of a raging egomaniac, but with a pure, unadulterated love. I breathed them in and let myself be flush with their essence. I touched them with my fingertips and memorized every curve and blemish in their skin. I looked into their eyes and allowed them to consume me fully, using up every drop of energy and casting aside a used up husk that would take hours to recover from one lingering glance. I loved each one as much as the last cigarette you breathe in when you know you're going to quit and the first cigarette when you finally cave in and take the habit back up. They were like water to me; if I went too long without one I felt like I was drying up and would soon blow away in the wind, destroyed.

 

But how things had changed. Now I saw them as children, running around the playground, only concerned with their own games, not how they effected the other kids. I saw them repeating, "Me! Me! Me!" at the top of their lungs until some authority figure would come over and do what they wanted just to make them shut up. I saw how they used men up, drank them in, and spit them out, not caring that sometimes it took more than hours for the men to recover. Not caring that sometimes they drained too much life, and when they spit their lovers out, they left something that was doomed to die. Not caring. Not caring. Not caring about anything, that is, except themselves.

 

And all the misery that I kept seeing in their lives, now I blamed on them. Self inflicted wounds are so difficult to feel sympathy for. I watched my girlfriends shove wonderful, loving men aside and chase men that they themselves knew, absolutely knew, were bad for them, and then heard them cry in despair when they found out they were right. How could I continue to feel sympathy for that immature behavior? No, I refused. And that is how I shaped into what I was. That is how I began my journey.

 

And so Elayjalon lay there in front of me, not really asleep, but more still passed out from her massive binge of drinking and self-loathing from the night before, and I truly thought about killing her for the first time. I imagined how easy it would be to slide over and wrap my hands around her throat, slowly choking the life from her. I even imagined her eyes opening in surprise and her own hands coming up to claw at mine in an attempt to get air. I watched the emotions in her eyes switch rapidly from one to another as she realized that she couldn't cry out, couldn't get free, and wasn't going to make it through. I watched the life drain out of her eyes and felt the coldness of a still heart wash up from the tips of her fingers to the core of her body like a shiver on a cold night. I thought about how I could finally free myself of her, and the tremendous guilt, obligation, duty, that I felt I owed her, with one simple s q u e e z e. Then she moved.

 

And my threads get locked?

 

Her eyes fluttered like butterflies, then opened and fixed themselves on me.

"****."

I just stared back.

"I slept here all night?"

I nodded.

"****. My back is going to kill me all day." Then she looked at me and became syrup.

"Honey Bear? Would you give me a neck rub?"

No mention of last nights high drama. No apology. No acknowledgment. No grasp of the reality of our situation. Just, "Me! Me! Me!" What could she do to get what she wanted at that moment.

Now you know Elayjalon. Now you know why I had to get away.








The End.






A little morbid. And, yes...the first sentence is WAAAAYYYY too long.

Okay...coffee break.

 

This thread makes me sad in my pants

 

Could someone summarize the last 10 posts or so for me?

Thanks.

 

Buck up mate . . . it, um, could be . . . um worse.















ok, maybe not.

 

Critics!!!!! Critics!!!!! I hate the critics!!!!

I cast my pearls before swine!

A little improv prose and you guys start telling me how it couldn't be worse!!!!!



ARRRRRGH!!!!! Where be the White Whale!??!

 

anything new going on in here?

 

Yes...I wrote three short prose pieces for your entertainment. Care to give them a read?

Or...should I start posting songs that I've written for various girl bands out here?