Hyena (14 page)

She’s calling me pieces of shit via text. I wanna tell her if she’d just smarten up, get some sense, maybe wash her pussy a bit, she might be a decent catch. But I don’t.

She showed up at my job the other day. I was half tempted to put my dick in her mouth while her girl waited outside. Mind-fuck her, tell her she could suck but she wasn’t allowed to swallow—nut in my hand and wash it off in the sink.

Teach her a lesson, kick the dog.

Dealing with this broad brings out my sadistic side. I feel like I’m seven again, plucking the legs off a spider, watching it writhe. I understand bullies; they see something weak and they want to destroy it.

Spartans, when their kid came out retarded, they just chucked ’em off the mountain. Now we raise them. And I hear the parents say how lucky they are to have ’em in their life. But when I see ’em at McDonald’s, with their kid drooling all over the place, hitting the normal one with his slimy little hand, the parents don’t look lucky; they just look tired.

I was at the studio, and looking at her mouth, thinking of what to do with it. I wanted to break her little brain. But I kept my dick in my pants and told her it’s through. End of the line, no more head.

She left.

Now I’m at dinner, listening to AIDS Face prattle on about the last book he wrote and why it’s not published, when she texts me again to see if I really meant it. I don’t hit her back. I take a sip of my tea and swallow.

I WAKE UP IN A
foul mood. The weekends are the hardest for me; they always have been. One has to find things to do to fill all that time.

In New York, I’d get hookers, day shift. I didn’t have any friends there, just chicks I was about to fuck or done fucking. First time I got one, I had to take two trains down to Chinatown. I meet up with a Chinese pimp on the corner. He’s wearing a wifebeater, dress pants, and flip-flops, smoking a cigarette, digging in his nose with his pinky.

I follow him into a railroad apartment, down the hallway, past three old whores watching a black-and-white TV, squatting around a Crock-Pot, bubbling. It smells like ginger and onions.

I’m in a room with a kiddie bed covered with paper towels; on the nightstand is a roll of toilet paper, lube, and some rubbing alcohol. Mine comes in wearing a baby-doll dress, she looks about fifty, no English.

She gets the lube, squirts it in her hand, applies it to her
crotch, and bends over. I take her like that and try and get it over with quick. She cleans me with the rubbing alcohol. I leave tingling and get a slice of pizza.

That used to be my weekend. I broke that habit a few years ago. Every time I wanted an escort, I’d buy a backgammon set instead, take it to the cigar shop, and play. I got ten of ’em.

Guys would be like, “That’s a beautiful board, how much that one cost ya?”

I’d tell ’em, “One and a half hookers.”

They’d get a good laugh out of it, then go back home to their wives.

It’s ten in the morning. I’m in the market for a credenza, so I go antiquing, then I hit a movie. I make plans with Annie to snort these drugs and fuck. I got a few hours to get my mind right. She’s late, what do I care? Not my girl. We snort till it burns, till I see pink wolves. We fuck for hours, till the drugs wear off and I’m tired of her and she goes home.

She leaves and I’m on Craigslist looking for prostitutes, phone in one hand, dick in the other, pressing numbers. I don’t call the hooker. I just jerk off to her picture, go throw up in the toilet, and go to bed. I dream of Julie that night and the night after.

I wake up at six begging for it to stop. It’s been over a year and a half and I still see her, I still miss her. I know her number by heart. I wish I could just forget it.

We haven’t spoke since the split. I broke down and called her this afternoon. I needed to know if she was over me cuz I’m not over her. What should we do about it? I’ll come
crawling back, just let me. Just answer the phone. I leave a message.

I been staring at my phone all day waiting for it to ring. Maybe she’s busy, maybe she’s working. I drive by her work. She’s not there. I try her again. No answer, no message, I don’t even know what to say. I text her.

Nothing.

Maybe I’ll hear from her when I’m stronger.

THIS MARRIED CHICK HITS ME
up on Facebook talking about wanting phone sex. I email her, “I ain’t picking up the phone till I get some nudes sent my way.”

She writes, “Nudes? I can’t send you naked pictures, that’s like cheating.”

“What the fuck you think phone sex is?”

She sends me a headless bra-and-panty shot with her phone number. She’s got some big-ass titties.

A few days go by, I’m at some art school dance party in Bushwick, lots of drugs, lots of ironic mustaches. I’m gone off Norcos and ketamine. I don’t know why I mix the two together; they seem to cancel each other out. But I keep on snorting and popping pills. I hit on this chick in front of her man. Not being disrespectful, I just thought he was gay.

He says, “Hey, man, that’s my girl.”

I pat him on the back. “Oh, for real? My bad, I thought you sucked dick.”

I go outside. I’m feeling kinda grimy. I walk down the sidewalk, past the art fags and hip-hop dykes. Lemme call this married bitch, tell her what I want her to do with my dick, let her catch a nut. I dial her number. It rings and rings. Her voice mail comes on. Fuck it, dumb idea anyway. I don’t leave a message. I go back inside and dance around to synth-pop.

A week later, she emails me, says her husband saw our messages. She keeps hitting me up about giving me head. I ignore her. This lady’s crazy.

I get an email from some guy. I open it.

Hey scumbag, have fun letting my wife suck your dick, she’s real good at it.

I just went through this a few months back, getting pranked by some computer tech whose girl tried to holler at me. He had a program that did it for him, called me every twenty minutes and left a message. At the end of the day he calls me, talking through a voice-distortion box, sounding like Darth Vader and shit.

“HEY ASSHOLE, HOW’D YOU LIKE ALL THE PHONE CALLS?”

“Is this Jen’s dude? Why are you playin’ on my phone?”

“HAHAHAHA.”

“This is so fucking lame, dude. She told me she was single.”

“SHE’S NOT FUCKING SINGLE, SHE LIVES WITH ME.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, man, she’s stepping
out on you. Better talk to her. Personally, dog, I don’t even know why you still messing with her.”

“I KNOW. I KNOW. I SHOULD DUMP HER.”

“Yeah, I hear you. You sound like a good dude, you deserve better, though.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him she blew me and swallowed and probably went back home to his house and kissed him on the mouth. Shady bitch.

That blow job’s costing me sixty bucks a year: I gotta pay the phone company for number blocking. I’m not going through that again with the phone-sex girl. I block her husband’s email and tell her to leave me alone.

Fucking with married chicks is a headache. I tell my boy about it; he says it’s bad karma, like if I bang somebody’s girl, someone’s gonna come bang mine.

I tell him, “Fuck that. It’s not karma, it’s cause and effect. Sometimes if you mess with another man’s girl, you’re gonna have to deal with that man.”

There’s no literal universal trade-off. There’s no “you stole my car so your car is gonna break down” law. You do what you do and you live with it. If some shit’s gonna eat you up inside then you probably shouldn’t have done it.

The question is: can I live with banging some other guy’s lady?

Every fucking day of my life. Her cheating, that’s between them. They got the agreement not to fuck each other over.

I just don’t wanna become that grimy motherfucker that these chicks come see when they need some reassurance, so
they can go back to their man feeling pretty and shit. And what do I get out of it? A nut? A notch? Freedom? The freedom to sleep alone at night.

I get a bunch of emails from the phone-sex girl; she stays on me. She says they’re getting a divorce; the emails were the straw that broke the camel’s back. She’s in town and wants to come by the studio.

Maybe you should try and work it out, you got kids.

No dice. It’s over.

She wants to fuck, she wants to cum, she wants guarantees. She says she lost her family for this.

I tell her, “Come if you want. I can’t guarantee you anything.”

She shows up to my job in a miniskirt. She’s late, she left her kids at the hotel. She sits in the rolly chair and sucks my dick during a song break. Her husband’s right, she is good at it. I bend her over the console and fuck her fast and finish quick, then send her back to her kids.

She says, “I’ll be here all weekend, call me.”

“I’ll probably be busy.”

She sees herself out and I get back on the mike. She never did cum and I still sleep alone.

I’M AT THE TACO TRUCK
with no drawers on wearing some sweatpants and a flannel shirt, looking like I just came from the VA hospital. She’s all dolled up, walk of shame style. Shirt ain’t tucked right, eye makeup’s smeared, hair’s a mess. She’s telling me about
sofrito
.

Some rockabilly Mexicans are posted up on a Honda Accord listening to Morrissey, eating tacos, eyeballing us.

I look back at ’em; I’m still high. Their headlights look like diamonds.

We started off the night with some GHB, chased it with ketamine, and got to fucking. I call it KGB. I think I do it cuz it sounds cool. I like the name better than the buzz.

She’s passing out, sloppy, rag-doll riding me. My ears are ringing. I’m off in my head somewhere thinking about puppy dogs and pussy trying to lose myself in the music.

She grabs the plate of K off the bedside table and sits it on my chest. I’m still in her.

“You want some more?”

I tell her, “Naw, I’m fucked-up. How you feeling?”

“I feel good. I feel like I’m floating.”

“Well, float on.”

She does another line and gets back to grinding.

“Feels good, right?”

“Yeah.”

I don’t feel nothing. I’m numb.

She wants me on top. I try but I can’t. The G’s got me nodding off and the K makes me feel like I’m swimming through peanut butter.

I go down on her till the high wears off, then I break out the 5-MeO-DALT. It’s my go-to fuck-drug. It’s like using a cheat-code on the pussy. I get it from a kid, who gets it from a kid, who gets it from some guy with a lab in China.

You get the body buzz of ecstasy without the emotional attachment. No euphoria, so no shitty comedown, and the next day you won’t be on suicide watch.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, scooping the 5-MeO-DALT out the bag. She’s on top of the covers, telling me about how her family likes dancing on the holidays because she’s Puerto Rican.

Puerto Ricans are always talking about being Puerto Rican. The first time I was out with her and her girls, it was plantains and Goya all night.

She licks her finger, sticks it in the powder, and puts it in her mouth. I do the same.

“How long’s this gonna take to kick in?” she asks.

“I don’t know, twenty minutes, a half hour?”

“There’s no way to speed it up?”

“We can snort it.”

So we do that, too. Chop up lines and take it up our nose. Feels like sniffing swimming pool water. Three minutes later we’re wrecked and we’re going at it again. She’s moaning and I’m grunting, I’m palming her ass and she comes, and we go till the playlist ends then we put on New Order and fuck some more.

Drug sex is great. The only thing better is love sex. But if you can’t get that, drug sex is a nice consolation prize. It’s like sorry you didn’t win the new car but take this blender as a parting gift. Well, I’m ’bout to put my dick in this blender and I’m thinking the only way this could get any better is if we could just get a little more high.

I pull out this glass meth pipe I bought to smoke DMT out of so I could trip out and find myself. I never smoked the DMT because I didn’t feel like finding myself. Right now I’m happy being lost.

I put a scoop of the 5-MeO powder into the pipe, put a torch to the glass bulb, watch the powder liquefy then turn to smoke. I hit it. It tastes toxic, like I’m smoking a couch cushion. I can’t hold it in; I’m hacking.

I hand it to her; she lights up and traces the bulb with the flame, evenly. It looks like she knows her way around a meth pipe. This gives me pause. She puts the stem in her mouth, takes a monster pull, and blows out a cloud of smoke.

She hands it back to me. “There’s more in there, if you want it.”

I look at the boat picture on my wall. The water’s moving. My hands are shaking, my mouth tastes like chemicals. It’s seven thirty on a Tuesday night. We’re buck naked freebasing science drugs.

I hit it again, this time like her. It’s a giant load. It feels like someone rang a gong in my head, colors pop, my eyes are twitching, my stomach turns. I excuse myself, walk to the bathroom, and throw up in the toilet. I rinse my mouth out in the sink and look in the mirror. One pupil’s pinned, the other’s the size of a nickel. I’m unshaven; I got bags under my eyes. I’m getting old.

I throw water on my face, go back in the room, and fuck her some more. We go forever and no matter what position or hole I hit, it’s never enough. No matter how deep I dig in her, it’s never deep enough. If I could just push my whole body inside of her I would, just to feel something more.

I finally cum and we’re all fucked out. Sticky and exhausted. She’s laying next to me smoking an e-cig.

“You know, you haven’t been to my job yet; you should come by this week and meet all the girls. So they can see who I’ve been talking about.”

“This week is nuts for me and next week I’m out of town.”

We’ve been meeting like this for months, casual. I don’t need to meet her friends. But I don’t even wanna have that talk with her. I’m too high to have that talk.

So we get tacos instead and she’s giving me the recipe to
sofrito
and I’m watching the La Bamba Mexicans finish eating
their food and throw their trash on the ground. In their own neighborhood, fucking animals.