By Dan Goldman
B ecky woke me up about a quarter to 7 in the am (again). She was a cocktail of drunk and coked-out (again) on her way over for early-Sunday-morning NSA deep-dicking (again). If I had any feelings left for her after the last 2 years, I’d be concerned about her sliding off the side of the interstate to be folded up and cooked inside her used Lexus like an empanada, but this was a dirty dance we’d been doing ever since she left me while we were partying in Rome. It didn’t feel amazing anymore and it didn’t sting afterwards either; it was just fucking and it was fucking tiresome, the free eightball notwithstanding.
I’d passed out on the couch a few hours earlier, flakes of dried come matting the hair around my bellybutton, a ring of empty beer bottles around my one foot still laced into a Converse low-top, my other foot was bare and had kicked over the ashtray. I’d been a mess since I lost my telemarketing job, spending my days indoors jerking off like a zoo monkey, drinking smoking polluting myself whenever however I could; my crib stunk of cigarettes and sweat and defeat. The rave-blast CD visualizer on my PS2 was still pulsing even though I must’ve paused the Future Sound of London CD sometime in the night, leaving a jizz-smear on the controller’s X button. Chelsea Clinton licked my hand and started doing her Becky Dance: whining by the back door and breathing Alpo breath in my face and smacking her tail on the top of my head to let me know my tiny low-rent world was about to be invaded by that chunky rich girl (again) and her ever-present bag of coke. I swatted at Chelsea’s tail and picked a few strands of red Irish Setter hairs from the corners of my mouth, beads of greyish drunken snore-gunk had caulked my lips together. Becky banged on the screen covering the back door.
“Luke? Hel-LOOOOOO…..?” I ignored her while I gargled with warm beer from a nearly-empty by the sink to break the seal. “Luuuuke? Let me in… the door’s locked and I wanna suck your cock so so SOOOOOO bad right now.” Chelsea Clinton was barking now; something tightened in my stomach thinking about her trying to get me off I’d emptied the tanks jerking off about the Puerto Rican girl wiggling that juicy bubble-butt at the Einstein Bagels a few hours earlier. What was her name again? I wanna say it was Rosa; I imagined her pussy to smell like a mink and taste like a peach, the skin around the lips dark and the hair naturally forming a musky THIS WAY arrow. Rosa’s eyes told me everything in the split second she handed me my to-go bag with her frosted/extended nails and clinging jewelry: she loved to dance and get drunk, the lust-for-life her dark doey eyes revealed to me let her drink it all up, every drop of experience and sensuality and-
“LUUUUUUKE!!! To the slopes! My treat!”
I’d been getting hard again just thinking about that coffee-colored bagel-butt; I wanted to fuck something ripe and sweet, spread it open and sink myself into it, both of us howling like cats at night under a full moon. Then we’d eat those nasty Einstein-only sun-dried tomato bagels with maple-strawberry cream cheese and she’d give me those “you’re a good man, fuck me again right now” half-lidded eyes. I lit a cigarette and made for the back door, slid back the deadbolt and there was Becky. She pushed past me with a “Hiya Sexy”, her jangling tangle of novelty keychains reminding me of a long-ago night in jail as she makes a bee-line for the couch to cut up some lines on one of my music magazines. I can smell her sweaty armpits as she wiggles her ass on the way to the couch; it’s a deflated glob of white girl ass, a flabby pillow of greasy disappointment under an cheap black fuck-me miniskirt from Wet Seal. Ugh, the name “Wet Seal”… it makes me think of slut-ass and and clapping flippers and fish breath all at once; as the powder forms into lines I hold onto my coffee-colored bagel shop girl and the necessary blood stays downstairs . “Taa-DAAH!” Becky holds out two lines rails of blow to me, cut diagonally across the eyes and nose of a posed band photo of the brothers from Oasis that reads BREAKUP… AGAIN!!; she looks to me as I though it’s my turn first then leans down, the first long rail disappearing up her nose through a $5 bill. She leans back, smiling and wiping at the rim of her nostril. “Now that is much much better…” she says as I notice a large black bruise on her shin, realizing that I don’t give even half a shit about. “Hurry up and kill it and I’ll sprinkle some on your cock.”
I hit the rail and instantly she cuts two more fat ones; we’re buzzing and crackling and someone has unpaused that Future Sound of London CD and it was very likely me. I sit back on the couch and clear my throat, light two cigarettes in my mouth; I am no longer the slightest bit drunk. “I’m fine, by the way… and you?” I am beaming my smarmy disgust at her and she doesn’t even care. She’s not here for me, she’s here for the cock. “We don’t hardly even talk anymore, you know…” The bitch cuts another line, as in singular, as in for herself and sucks it up, taking off her top a split-second later. Her bra is candy pink as it soars through the air; I think that’s supposed to be sexy but it reminds me of one of the Golden Girls, the horny one (Rue McClanahan?). I’m not sure why that is but it’s not a turn-on.
“Luke, we’ve talked enough for three lifetimes.” A puff from her cigarette and suddenly she’s down to her panties, white cotton ones that look like super-sized Underoos. The shade of old stubble and razorburn dots her armpits and bikini line; it’s a pet peeve of mine and she obviously doesn’t give a shit. With her and I, it’s about the struggle for power versus humilation. It has been since Rome, since we un-fiancéed and she gave me the ciao bella. “Take off your pants.”
I unbuckle mine and remember that I haven’t taken a shower in at least two days, my body ripe and sweet with unemployment and self-abuse; unzipping my jeans I can smell my balls, kicking my foot out of one pant-leg I can smell my ass-sweat. I look Becky in her dilated and glazed blue eyes: “This is going to be the last time. For real.”
“Heh. Sure baby… I know I got you hooked on this…” She peels her panties off; the skin around her cunt is red and irritated, like she just raked a dull razor over it in the wrong direction outside in the car. She’s already wet and there’s this plasticy smell, like band-aids. The razorburn is bad, but shaved pussy has always reminded me of plucked chickens at the butcher shop, dead-looking and slimy. She’s rubbing her clit with her middle finger and giving me the heavy eyelids and it takes me back to that cafe in Rome, the morning she left. I lost her in the middle of Paul’s set at Caramello Club; the music and the night up to then were amazing, energy and steam just smoldering off the tangle of dancing bodies had blinded us both and… these things happen. Something vibrated in my pocket when I leaned against the wall with a cold bottled water, a text from her to meet back at the hotel. I didn’t think she meant in the morning. She showed up around one in the afternoon, still high and musky and defiantly un-guilty, maybe she thought it was a turn-on even. We didn’t speak for a few minutes, but the stink of what she’d done and what she was about to do was all over the room. I forced the issue, jealous guy style, and then she started silently packing her bags; there was a talk and some coke to harden our hearts before the screaming started. It started there in the room, in the well-pricey pre-nuptial suite, and rolled down through the elevator to the hotel lobby to the piazza where an Australian guy with dreadlocks and silver vinyl pants named Mark was waiting for her on a Vespa. Cli-fucking-ché. He even wore the same leather bomber jacket as me. Becky hopped on the back; I was still screaming at her but I couldn’t hear anything past the sudden ting of her wedding ring as it bounced off the piazza cobblestones and she sped away with her dreadlocked new hunk at a maximum speed of 35mph.
“You wanna drink? I have some cold beers in the fridge.” She nodded, sinking one then two fingers into herself.
“Hurry UP, Luke. My pussy’s burning for you now… mmmm.” I slammed the fridge at “up”, my fist tight on the fridge handle; bottles and jars and rotten old food clinked against each other inside. She always did this; this power play: she’s got the money, she’s got the pussy, she’s got the eightball, and I’m the poor schmuck with nothing but want want want. I looked at myself in the chrome stripe lining my microwave; life was kicking my ass and it’s starting to show. I stare deep into my own eyes, feeling around for fire, for a spark. I call back to Beck: “Change the CD; this is too fucking mellow.” Then I wince, remembering her taste in music (I should’ve known it would never work).
Immediately, Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s Return to the 36 Chambers fills my tiny living room, adding the necessary shimmy-shimmy-ya’s to her white girl wiggle. Staring at myself in the microwave door as I pop the tops on the Shiner Bocks, Becky giggles. Bending over naked to replace the CD, Chelsea Clinton’s come up behind her and licked at her pussy; she probably thought it was boiled chicken. Beck giggles and pushes Chelsea away, her cheeks flushed and guilty and hotter. The bottlecaps hit the floor and the fire is found. I am going to cross the line here and never look back.
There are two things you ought to know about Becky before I continue: first, no matter how much coke she snorts, she always cries after her fifth drink. It’s turned many a night of potentially gibbering animal sex into a gelded display of the Sensitive Man I Am Not, holding her and drying her tears. I even have this gesture, right? I call it the Itsokay. When Becky is drunk and starts to cry, I hold her and I coo and stroke her cheek, catching the tears as they fall and kiss then, taking her salty weeping onto my lips and tongue and repeating softly to her, over and over, “it’s okay, it’s okay”.
Second, she’s terrified of anal sex. Beck’s done all kinds of crazy shit; I can only imagine what she’s rammed up her cootch in the years since we split, but I remember being blissfully E’d up one summer in Alex’s backyard and pissing on her, soaking her hair and t-shirt. She came the minute my piss splashed across her face so hard she audibly farted. But she’s weird about getting fucked in the ass. Trust me, I’ve tried, begged, snuck a wet finger up whenever I lost my patience with her bullshit. A handful of my previous girls were down with it, tight and raw, the kind of orgasm that starts somewhere in the lower spine until the body gives up to structural failure in shudders and she’s down for the count. But with Becky, pissing yes, drugs and threesomes and public sex yes; come near her ass, with a finger even, and she’ll throw me off her say she’s needs to be able to trust me or she can’t “continue this”… whatever “this” even was by this point.
Standing over her on the couch now, Becky’s rubbing the cold beer bottle against her hot gash with one hand and gentling sprinkling some powder on the head of my cock with the other. She bites it, dragging her teeth across it, and the skin is numb but the pressure gets me hard instantly, the skin fixing to split like a microwaved hot dog. I am gonna fuck her good and proper. I tell her to stick the beer bottle into her cunt and she looks back at me like bad little girl and says no, biting her lip with this “I’m such a bad girl” expression on her face that’s just ridiculous when you zoom out to take in the rest of her. She takes me into her mouth instead, working the shaft with her free hand. She never remembers to spit on it first, dragging on the skin and making clucking noises in her throat like she saw in a porno. I used to find her messy blowjobs cute, mostly for the humming noises she’d make. She was making some now, the vibration felt nice. I look down at her, into her dilated blue eyes; the coke glassed them over, but they were red too: she was crying. Like I said. I pretend not to notice for another few minutes and my hips buckle as I bust my nut into her mouth.
I pull myself out with a lolli-POP, a rope of my come sliding off her chin like a noodle. “Are you crying, B?” I ask her, the devil in my throat cackles and sharpens pointy claws against my trachea. I take her hand and sit her on the couch again. She buries her face in my collarbone and that fifth drink lets her cut loose with a torrent of tears; I stroke her hair and roll my eyes. Same shit every fifth drink. Her hands are claws, digging into my shoulders as she gasps for air.
“Such a bitch… How can I have been so awful to you… and-” she gasps and I bust out my Itsokay right here, diverting the first tear down my index finger, lovingly running it back up to my lips. She whimpers and kisses me full-on, stuffing her tongue down my throat, the Itsokay gets her every time. We make out and things heat up. She moans into my ear, chest heaving but still crying softly as I turn her back to me and kiss her bare neck and shoulders: “You’re always there when I need you, the kind… kind of man I want to m-marry-” She stops talking because she’s started crying again. I certainly wasn’t the kind of man for her once the Aussie with the dreads was in the picture, scooting her off to parts unknown for months before she came crawling back, drunk and jittery, again and again. I hold her breasts from behind, kiss a line down her spine; her back hunches as she sobs again. “I don’t deserve you, Luke… Oh my god, how can I be such an awful fucking person…??!”
I am moving like a snake now, my body coiling around hers slow and strong and steady. Kneeling behind her on the couch as she cries into the armrest, I kiss her shoulderblades softly, touch my fingers to her cheeks again to catch all the flowing tears, those slippery slippery tears. She turns back at me, her eyes bloodshot and fiery and she asks me with a sniffling face: “What can I do to keep you..?”
My wrist hovers silently over the small of her back, her tears slide down my fingers onto her asshole, dilating as my fingertips circle it, wet it, warm it. Her eyes go wide and pupils tiny as I press my tears-wet hard-on up against her, sliding the underside of the shaft until the tip enters her no-no zone. I look up at her and smile, this split-second hanging in the air like a pole vaulter, glorious and slow-motion. My hot breath hisses up from the furnace in my belly, through my windpipe, pushed between my teeth and sculpted by my lips into the words “It’s okay, it’s okay” as I jam myself quick and cruel up inside her to the hilt, my hipbones smacking solid against her flabby cheeks and her gasp inflates her lungs involuntarily. She still cries, looking at our reflection in the mirror over my bureau as I quicken and groan and come into her ass… not because it hurts, but because she knows she can never have me now.
— Dan Goldman
In addition to writing his TOUCANNUÍ series here at Trip City, writer-artist Dan Goldman is currently working on his digital-first comic series RED LIGHT PROPERTIES, published on Kindle/iTunes/Nook/Comixology/etc. His editorial illustration work was recently featured in Taschen Books’ ILLUSTRATION NOW! 4. He is currently broadcasting from São Paulo, Brazil.