City of Singles (16 page)

The girls start to gab on about their rings and their purses, my teeth grit as I lose my interest and think about getting another whiskey. Liz locks eyes with me a few times and I go in for a kiss. She gives me a hesitant peck and turns around for a line. Cara is showing off her ring again to Joellen, they compare it to the colour of white wine. Liz drinks some of my whiskey, turns around with newfound confidence, and kisses me deep with her tongue. Vanilla chapstick mixes with the whiskey. A deep breath out through her nose sweeps my cheek with warmth. I lightly bite her upper lip, the sour taste of blow soon freezes the tip of my tongue and front teeth. Dougie taps me on the shoulder. Liz has her arms around me, but she lets go when I notice him.

“Whoa I thought I was your date?!” Dougie jokes with his hands out and palms up.

Cara walks from behind the kitchen island, “Dahling” with the thickest English accent yet, “you do a better job admiring me than talking.” The girls laugh. Dougie is far more handsome than I am, and in better shape. Cara’s eyes fall below his face, she wants him, if only for right now. That yellow diamond set on platinum didn’t buy her fiancé any faith, while the much cheaper rock smashed on marble, might have just bought Dougie a lover for tonight. Dougie grabs Cara in his arms, begins to exaggerate a dance with her as he sings “Moon river, dada, da da da!”

Cara howls with delight.

The best looking man in her arms and the highest status ring on her finger.

Liz takes another swig of my drink. Wrapping her arms around me, numb lipped kisses a prequel to her tongue violently thrashing around my mouth. Not guided by passion but by instinct. Things seem like they’re going well tonight, arriving in hell and finding it balmy with strong piña coladas and girls in grass skirts. The only trouble is, those piña coladas turn into shit once it hits your tongue, and the girls have rattlesnake mouths for vaginas. I smile. Cara isn’t letting go of Dougie and the soiree has just started. The night roars on past 11, the music grows louder and more aggressive. I briefly talk to the quietest girl in the group, Rebecca. She’s Italian, a bit chubby and plain, with long, curly brown hair. She spends much of the night on her Blackberry on plenty of fish. I get the feeling the other girls keep her around to make them look better, it’s not the first time girls I know have done that. I’m not surprised any of these chicks are hanging out with Matt, him being a small time coke dealer now. His friend doesn’t say much at all the whole night. He’s on mushrooms.

The girl that bounces on Matt’s knee is his girlfriend, Sylvia. She’s so proud that she’s pregnant with her second child, and is quick to turn down drinks, point out when drinks are too close to her, when she can smell second hand smoke. It’s for the safety of her child she says. Then she starts doing a line or five. Bouncing on his knee turns into a public lap dance between queuing up for a bump. Dougie and Matt hit off on a long conversation over musical tastes, the debate being Snoop Dogg VS Ice-T. He’s always been better at making friends and meeting girls, I’ve been better at relationships than he is, or was, until I stopped trying. Liz is out of her head drunk and high, she sneaks off to the bathroom and throws up a few more times. Her whiskey and bile flavoured kisses add to the gutter bouquet of coke now dripping down the back of my throat.

It’s after midnight and a few more people show up, a joint is smoked and Sylvia gets upset. Joellen’s other friends show up in rapid succession and soon the apartment is full of strange faces, forcing the coke plate to be banished to the bedroom. A secret meeting, six of us huddled around a plate, all trying to talk at once. Stragglers from the new party prove themselves soft, timid people trying to find the bathroom walk in on us, and exit without a word. Matt suggests all of us head to his place, and it’s quickly decided that we’ll go. Liz and Cara are relieved that Matt has gum for their teeth grinding. The sketchy, rag tag crew gathers together their belongings, Matt’s friend on mushrooms is coerced into moving from the safety of the couch. “The ducks!” he keeps saying. Whatever.

21 Snortmare

Out the door, down the elevator, my ears feel nothing, I may be too high. The mirrors love us all as we all look so good. I squeeze Liz’s ass and she presses it into my crotch. The door opens and we step into the lobby sometime after 2 AM. It’s a different doorman, this time he’s older, with sagged shoulders or maybe just a sore back. He spots us and his grin is a little tired looking. His crisp red jacket with gold details give him an air of dignity, I’m guessing he eats cheap bologna sandwiches, no name soups, plays crosswords, and lives alone. I smile at him through my 32 little pestles. Two cabs swing up and friendly Indians scoot us off to Matt’s.

I’m flying. This metal and glass madhouse sprints through the streets of downtown Vancouver, Liz digging her hand into mine with the first of several ran yellow lights. Between my fingers I feel moist flesh interlacing and squeezing reassuringly tight. The cab flies over a speed bump going fast, the car bucking hard enough to make my stomach do a back flip. With my head buried in the headrest, city lights and skyscrapers flow faster, then slower again, coming to a stop at lights. All idea of time is lost while soaking in the ecstasy of world-numbing cocaine highs that elevate with each passing moment. Exhaling between shivers, I expect to see my breath. While Liz squeezes my hand hard, her mouth finds my neck, a gentle suck and a giggle. Lights streak overhead. I never noticed lights this bright. I have to sit up, a trap door opened in my stomach, nausea from the blow down the back of my throat. How long is this drive going to take!
Fuck!
A pang of panic hits and fades fast, my focus drifts back to Liz’s hand in mine, the sensation for a moment that we’re both feeling happy and giddy. A honeymoon couple, if only for one night, strangers meeting to share a moment and at least pretend we’re in love.

Turning away from light streaks to look at her, we’re stopped at a red. Cara’s nose is sniffling as it has been for hours, but I think I’ve only just really noticed it now. Dougie is talking about the Canucks while my tongue is buried in what’s-her-name’s mouth. Oh yeah, Liz. Cara protests and the lower lip my teeth are holding struggles free into a belly laugh. Cara says something, I can’t understand or don’t want to, Liz shifts her body closer to mine and her satiny lips hit mine passionately. The hair on the back of my neck sticks up, shivers rush down my spine and my cock struggles against blow sedation. Streetlights strobe by overhead with buzzing eyelids trying to hide from them, red and black tones fill my non-sight.

Scents of her sweat, breath, perfume, and hair soak into me.

Beard stubble reddens her face, a fuschia hue seen in between the splash of headlight and neon street glow. Sour and frozen, my lips would ache from her biting. Maybe I’d trade the dull throb of swollen lips to think that what I have here is real, but who would deny that lust in the moment feels better than lonely in eternity. Her hand grabs at my dick, she’s unreserved in showing me what she wants and how she needs it. Cara and Dougie talking blends in with Liz’s breathing, the cab driver must have put on the radio, my hand cups Liz’s breast and I squeeze. Cara chuckles. Dougie yells “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I come up for air and laugh. We’re here. Dougie checks his wallet and he’s out of cash. I give the driver a $20 and thank him for the trip. He looks at me like I’m a piece of shit.

I close the door and the cab pulls away, an ugly yellow stain among a convoy of black Mercedes and silver BMWs. Inside fancy cars ride a cargo of wealthy Asian sons and daughters living a life so completely foreign to mine. A rush of jealousy is quickly washed away with the thought of how much fucking better I am.

Thanks, cocaine.

Liz hugs Cara on the sidewalk, it’s late, but Asians and dog walkers poke up and down the street, they shuffle around our enthusiastic motley crew. Dougie dances and sings “cuhcuhcuh-cooooocaine!” Michael Jackson would be proud. “Nononose in paypaypayayyain!” Cara freaks out and screams about missing her purse, I point to Dougie as he strolls up the street with chutzpah only possible through copious amounts of liquor and drugs, a little black purse over his shoulder. Liz leans against a tree and slips her shoes into her left hand, her feet slapping the concrete as she starts running to catch up to Cara. I speed up my walk to match theirs while the tension in my chest keeps me from running.

Chased by security while high one time, my teenage self got caught skinny dipping at 3rd beach pool. Flashlights and yelling, dodging through bushes trying to find my car, I lost my shoes that night. Hard to forget how I couldn’t catch my breath for an hour, the sensation of my chest nearly exploding. I promised myself I wouldn’t do blow again after it took two hours for a normal heartbeat. Not doing coke turned into just little lines, the catch being none after midnight. Then it became none after two. I did stop for long periods of time, at a time when most of my friends were also shut-ins.

I’m watching Liz’s ass. The way her dress sometimes rides up her crack. Her perfect looking toned legs glowing as headlights of a starting Audi shine onto her. A larger man is getting out of a taxi a half block down. It’s Matt. He is with Joellen, Sylvia and the fucked up guy on ‘shrooms. Cara, Liz, and Dougie start waving wildly at them, I smile.

Matt staggers over to an iron apartment gate and fiddles with his keys. This must be where the party continues, a low rise condo unit off Robson Street. My teeth grit and clash against each other, I shiver and feel hot at the same time. The crew follows Matt through the front gate, up a shabby elevator that feels a bit cozy with all of us inside it. My crotch presses against a girl and my right hand finds the middle of Liz’s back. I’m antisocial and everyone’s chatter and laughter grinds inside of my ears. Penthouse level, down the hallway and another door unlocks, Matt’s place is spacious. Two large rooms form the kitchen that doubles as a bar, and a living room with a glass coffee table. A small office leads out to a balcony while the bedroom has a hot tub and mirrors on the walls.

We all queue and Pacman up through our noses, briefly taking turns sitting on the couch. Matt lights up a fat joint and passes it around. The girls decline, but I take three large hits and pass it back to him. My tongue curiously laps my mouth for a taste of smoky teeth and gums while a thick rope of saliva binds my oral organ. Smoke, spit and sugary sweet cranberry tones mix together into a viscous blob and I swallow it in hopes of clearing the taste of blow from my throat. High as fuck while stoned and drunk, I reach a peak and feel like tripping out. Liz sits on my lap and grinds her little ass on me until I have to push her off and step out of the living room, through the office, and out onto the balcony. Lights twinkle everywhere. A landscape filled with so many shuttered windows and dim condos. I’m standing facing a hotel across the street, blocks and blocks of apartment buildings are behind it, to my right, and to my left. A valley of what the modern man considers a home, certainly not a castle and not the Canadian dream.

I inhale sharply, frigid air is coughed back out. I can’t remember if I had been breathing. My chest feels tight and I steady myself on the balcony which is covered in light layer of frost, flirtatious lights of the city watching my every move. Music booms behind me, closing my eyes, a gentle numbing euphoria rolls over me in waves.

Why am I here?

I open my eyes and city lights blend and swirl together, waves of calming warmth and a deep sense of satisfaction bathe my brain in powder fueled pleasure. I’m in a paradise of self-loathing.

I breathe out through my mouth, the steam twists and curls into exotic, flowery forms. Liz steps out behind me and puts her arms around my neck. I can’t fake any interest in her no matter how genuine my intent is to flirt, my hand finds her fingers together at my collarbone and unbinds them. She mutters something about drinks and I think she walked away.

I draw a little smiley face in the frost, what little happiness there is in the world is probably chemically altered. Two, six, no, fourteen. Fourteen of my friends are on or have been on anti-depressants. I was even on them before, a little pill that helps you numb biting reality. A layer of gauze over all of your senses, a gag on the voice inside that calls out to you when it senses something is wrong. Sex isn’t fun, but you don’t need it. Food all tastes like plastic. Spooning that girl you like, she might as well be a mannequin. My heart is racing, a sharp cold stabs into my forearm and I breathe in sharply. It’s Liz, she brought me a big glass of vodka on ice. Perfect store-bought ice O’s pop and crackle in my nearly clear beverage, the cranberry barely lends it a pink tone, its more vodka than cran. I guess when 50/50 blackout mixes aren’t enough, the ante gets upped to a split that favours the house over the player. The house, in this case, is the floor. Drinking is a game, seeing just how close to blackout you can get, finding that party-veteran point of being not-too-much-but-just-right fucked up.

“Cheers!” she stutters while shivering from the drugs, the cold, or both.

Our glasses clink together, glass to chin, head dips back to take the numbing cold vodka in my mouth. Cocaine’s bitter aftertaste haunts the back of my throat, only easing up after dancing with the vodka going down. Liz stumbles into the patio furniture and knocks an ashtray off the table. She giggles and pulls up a chair to be beside me. The drink finds the railing and I can’t bear to face her. I don’t want her here. This is all fake. This is the drugs and alcohol acting inside me, making me want her. Second hand smoke wafts over and invades my personal space. Litter and neon light hum, the slums of thoughts, a grimy dive, alcohol, blow, smokes, and the thought of Liz’s pussy. An award-winning high. My heart feels like it’s going to give up, I breathe in and feel like a king, beside me sits the queen of this evening, the ace can be found up my nose.

Liz says something, I can’t really hear her. My stomach flips in a knot from the vodka assault, or I could have snorted the coke back too far and swallowed a lot of it.

“Wha ... What?” I barely manage to choke out.

Nausea hits me hard.

“They’re listening to fucking dubstep, I hate it. Sounds like a robot being tazed taking a shit.” Liz flicks her smoke with panache. I don’t know if this is how she is, or she’s trying to impress me. So high, so cold, I’m shivering almost to a beat.

“I’ll be bu-ba-back” I croak out to Liz, my legs feel like lead, back into the office, through the archway to the living room. People are lined up around the snow pile, conversations everywhere. Boastful hand gestures, a 60oz of vodka is half finished on the counter. Melted ice runs out of a bag on the counter and into an ever-growing puddle on the floor. A few people acknowledge me and I push passed them, eyes glazed over and my stomach turning upside down.