Tantalized Page 4
“You heard me,” I say. “Want a blow job?”
“O-okay,” he says, then clears his throat. “Let's go somewhere else. Somewhere, um, quieter.”
Whatever you say, Romeo.
His male friends have begun to hoot and holler as loudly as they dare. The girls just look at me like I'm something slimy they've stepped on and had squish between their bare toes. That's pretty rich, because nobody who wears skirts that short is an angel.
I untie the neck of my halter top with more force than strictly necessary, yanking it down to my waist. The guy yelps, “Careful!” when I rip down the zipper of his fly, nearly catching his boxers, and, by proxy, his cock, in the tracks.
“Shut up and let me do this,” I snap at him, forgetting who's doing who the favor for a moment. Luckily, he's too high to remember either, and tits have just entered the equation.
He blinks, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes on my breasts. “Your nipples are huge.”
“You're high,” I tell him.
“Nice tits,” he says, laughing a little.
“I know, I know, biggest you've ever seen.”
He tries to use his mouth on me, but I pull him back by the hair and make a face when I see his lips are still in a fish-like pucker. I don't want his slobber on my breasts and he looks like the type who will suck on your nipple like it's a fucking a pacifier.
“Keep your tongue in your mouth,” I tell him. “This isn't a date. You can use your hands, but that's it. Got it? Also, the button-up stays on,” I add coldly, when he starts trying to pull it off my shoulders.
“Okay,” he says again.
I get to my knees on the floor of the closet and proceed to give what is a very mediocre blow job. He's so high I doubt he'll be able to tell the difference.
I look up at him and with a breast in each hand, he looks pretty happy. I'm not. He keeps squeezing them like they're stress balls and when he remembers that they have nipples attached he pinches them like he's shaping Play-Doh. “You're so hot,” he tells me, “so fucking hot. Do you like what I'm doing, baby?”
I don't answer—can't answer—because I've got my lips wrapped around his flaccid cock. Whether it's because he's nervous or high I'm not sure but he can't get hard. Not even when I start stroking his balls.
“Ooh, aah, I love you, baby, suck me dry!”
In some ways, blow jobs are better than sex because when you have a mouthful of cock you can't make snide comments.
I let five minutes go by before pulling away from him. I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth and tie up my halter. He looks like a puppy that's been left out in the rain, eying my covered breasts with a hangdog look.
“Your cock's hanging out,” I tell him.
He tucks his penis back into his pants with a sheepish expression. “Can I have your number?” he asks me hopefully, zipping up his jeans.
Hell fucking no. “The weed,” I remind him.
He gives me a larger amount than I expected. Then the moment I tuck the baggie away in my jeans he whips out his cell phone and asks for my number.
Sighing, I reel off seven digits and watch him plug the numbers into his phone with an eagerness made doubly sad by the fact that I've just given him the number for Domino's express delivery.
I figure he'll thank me later tonight, when he finds himself alone with the munchies. In absentia, of course. I have no intention of ever seeing him again.
I don't rejoin the group of potheads in the garage. I don't want to deal with clingy blow job guy, or have to look at those prissy stoner bitches. I go to the bathroom that one chick locked herself in earlier while I was cruising. She and her boyfriend must have kissed and made up because it's empty now and smells vaguely of sex. I lock the door and stand on the toilet lid to disconnect the smoke alarm.
I check the baggie in the light, and I'm delighted to see that the guy has given me one of his rolled joints and one of those cheap Bic lighters. I light up, leaning back against the toilet tank. Someone knocks on the door. I ignore it. This is the good shit. I almost feel like a human being again smoking it. Almost.
“Come on,” a disembodied voice whines. “Hurry up and let me in, I have to pee.” It sounds far away, the distant whine of a mosquito. But it's annoying enough that it harshes my buzz a little.
“Occupado,” I shout back, “go the fuck away!”
Some starts slamming on the door. Jesus fucking Christ, they sound like they're trying to bust it down or something. I've only been in here for a couple minutes. What if I was taking a shit?
I finish the joint at my leisure, then flush the remains down the toilet. As it hits the water with a hiss, I can't help but think that there is something turd-like about a wet joint. My amusement fades quickly. I've got to get rid of the smell. I check the medicine cabinets and spy an old bottle of Axe cologne that might not even be from this decade.
I spritz it around a few times until the skunk-like scent of the pot is completely covered by the musk. Then I reconnect the fire alarm, making sure it cheeps to show that it's fully functional again.
A line of angry-looking people await me outside the bathroom door, though their faces shift to confusion when the smell of cologne hits them like a wall. “Yeah, you might want to give that a few minutes,” I say. “And don't eat at that Mexican place on campus. At least, don't get the chimichangas.”
I got what I came here for but I'm not ready to go home yet. I'm not sure when I might be able to get my next fix, so I want to take this place for all it has to offer. I wind up in the kitchen and the fridge yields some rum and a couple cans of Coke, so I mix myself a drink with two thirds Bacardi and one third Coke Zero and chug what's left in the can like a bro.
The party is wearing down and people are tiring. Where it was nonstop barrage of noise before, now there are periods of silence interspersed at random intervals. All but the most hardcore and seasoned partiers are starting to express anxiety about how they are going to get home.
Britney Spears is playing now, what I think of as her BDSM album. Lace and Leather and then, after that, a remix of Gimme More. Songs that make me want to sling on my leather jacket and high heels and go bar-hopping under the cover of the night.
I climb the stairs to escape the music and maybe find some more alternative forms of entertainment, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because I find myself in a darkened bedroom. Sleep sounds good and I'm tempted to crash, but there are two people who have beaten me to it. From the snorts and snuffling that they're making, though, it doesn't sound as if sleeping is high on their priority list.
As my eyes adjust I can see that their faces look more animal than human, faces slack with pleasure, eyes slitted, mouth agape. The girl is handcuffed to the bedposts, and the chains rattle and clank as she writhes beneath the boy, who is thrusting into her like his cock is a battering ram and he thinks it is his life's purpose to lay siege to the Vagina Fortress.
It's a pretty small dick all things considered. He's even smaller than Stoner Boy, who wasn't even fully erect. But then I see that she's got clamps on her nipples, and when the boy takes the tip of her breast into his mouth she lets out a low strangled moan. That sounds real, way more convincing than his idea of nasty talk (“yeah, baby, take it, come on, take it all”). My breathing changes a little. It's never occurred to me to go in for kinky stuff but now I want to try it, see if it makes a difference. If it can make being with someone who is so obviously bad at sex seem bearable than I wonder what it could do if you're with somebody who actually knows a thing or two.
As I'm considering, swinging against the door a little as I do so, there's a sharp intake of breath that has nothing to do with sexual plateau. The two of them have just noticed me standing there, silhouetted against the light of the hallway.
There is a beat of silence, during which I can hear the music floating up from downstairs. Then the girl screams, long and loud. The clamps on her nipples bob comically as her chest heaves to draw in breath.
“What the fuck,” he says, “what the fuck, who's there? Get the fuck out of here, you disgusting lesbo cunt, or I'll make you wish you'd never been born!”
“Whatever you say, Tiny,” I tell him, cackling when he trips over the sheets in his attempt to get out of the bed and pound me one. They deserve each other, him and Clampy.
I escape back to the party—of course, now that I'm not going anywhere, I find the staircase just fine. I decide to stop exploring and just chill down in the living area. Someone has put out a bunch of glasses and I don't know what's in them, but they smell fruity and contain alcohol, so I gulp one, two, three of them down. I need it, after seeing what I just saw.
After the third glass my stomach and liver stage a rebellion, and I wonder if I'm going to throw up. The pot keeps me from vomiting but I still feel vaguely crummy. I know I'd better steer clear of any more alcohol for the rest of the night if I don't want to get alcohol poisoning, but then someone offers me a glass of champagne they've just opened and I say yes.
I know I shouldn't, but I've forgotten what the reason behind that rationale is, and the bubbles promise a lift of the first-degree. I wait for bliss, but I only feel tired, so I decide to rest my eyes for just a moment. When I open them, I'm no longer standing, leaning against the island in the kitchenette, but on the floor, lying on the floor in a circle of cheese dust that surrounds my body like those white chalk outlines. I don't remember eating anything but it must have been me because I've got identical orange crumbs beneath my nails and around my mouth.
The tie of my halter feels loose, like someone made a fumbling attempt to unfasten it. One of my breasts has flopped out, and there is a crude drawing of a penis cumming onto my nipple in black ink. I rub at the drawing and curse when it doesn't come off. Sharpie. They used Sharpie. Fucking dickheads.
I make my way back to the bathroom where I smoked the pot. I'm tempted to smoke more now, but I've got to get back to the dorms and need to get this dick off my breast. There's a girl passed out in front of the toilet, with drying vomit around her mouth. I step over her, wincing at the acrid smell of the puke coming from the bowl, and examine my face.
No dick drawings. Good.
I do wet a paper towel and rub some soap onto the ink. It smears and comes off a little, but you can still kind of see the cock, even though it's faded.
Well, that tears it. I go into the tool shed and find the group of stoners. They're still there, as I kind of expected they would be. Asleep now, circled around an empty box of pizza like it's a campfire. I fish into each of their pockets and help myself to their weed, or what's left of it. Then I take a Sharpie of my own—there were several in the kitchen area, and I grabbed one impulsively—and draw a big hairy dick on the left cheek of the boy I gave the blow job too.
I stand back and admire my handiwork. Then I put the Sharpie in one of the girls' hands and walk back to the dorms feeling almost glad.
Feeling almost glad?
Don't kill yourself.
My digital clock's readout informs me that it's 4:26 when I arrive home. I don't bother changing out of my clothes or brushing my teeth. I just pull the covers back, and do a face plant into the pillow.
If I dream, I don't remember.
Five hours later I'm awakened by the pressing urge to pee. I haven't eaten anything in over half a day but my stomach is unwilling to engage in a showdown with food. Not after last night's debauchery. I can't even remember the last time I ate a healthy, well-balanced meal. Certainly not since my parents imprisoned me in Fielder.
You're going to end up hooked up to an IV at this rate.
That happened before back in high school: I was starving myself for a guy I didn't even like because we were dating, and because he made a few off-handed remarks about my weight. After three days of eating nothing, I passed out in the hallway on my way to senior English.
My parents will gladly tell you that if you are looking for proof that I'm a retard, this is just one of many examples. They say they don't use that word, the R-word, but it's a lie. They do, and often.
Always in regards to moi.
I figure I might as well head over to the dining commons to activate my meal plan. That way, I can have my shit and eat it, too. It's not like I have anything else going on today.
The unhappy-looking plants in their little concrete planter boxes glitter with dew. There's a low-hanging mist that shrouds the mountains in the distance in a curtain of purple haze, but it's bound to evaporate before the sun reaches its zenith. I can tell it's going to be another scorcher, with the humidity of a greenhouse to boot.
I take my iPod out of my pocket and scroll through the songs until I find “Steam Heat,” and then proceed to giggle to myself as Ella Fitzgerald sings a cover of the hit song from The Pajama Party.
I'm so fucking hilarious sometimes.
I must be getting closer because the smell of food is getting stronger. It smells like a greasy spoon, eggs and bacon and sausage, all cooked in a meat-based fat of some kind and left to sizzle for ages. I brace myself but even so, the moment I push open the doors nausea slams up against me with the force of a drunk driver hitting a streetlight.
T-boned on Hangover Boulevard like a mother.
Eating is out of the question so I go for a walk instead. Once again, I find myself in the middle of a crowded-as-fuck campus, but as I get farther away from the dorms and the classroom buildings, and closer to the downtown area, it begins to thin out.
I don't have to go more than a few blocks to find a Starbucks, and I think that coffee sounds pretty good. Sobering, anyway. As miserable as my stomach is, I don't think it'll object to being force-fed some coffee. The only problem is, I left my purse back in my dorm. All I've got is my shitty temp ID card, because that's the only thing you need to get swiped in to the DC.
Fuck. I'm not about to head back to the dorms. It's nearly ten now and that campus is going to be packed with idiot freshmen. I don't want to see any more living souls than I can help. I want my damn coffee.
I walk around some more, getting a feel for the stores that Fielder has to offer while checking the gutters for dropped change. There isn't as much as you might think. Tuition being what it is, college students can't really afford to lose their spare change. Two hours pass before I have enough money jingling in my jeans pocket for the cheapest thing on the menu: a single espresso shot.
“It's going to be a hot one today,” the male barista says with banal certainty as he starts up the espresso machine with a hiss. He looks at the metal monolith and says, “You sure you don't want something cold?”
I want what I asked for, I think, but do not say. Now shut up and give me my fucking coffee.
You don't fuck with food servers, though. Not if you don't want to be ingesting other people's sputum every time you go out. I smile wanly and shake my head, kind of wishing I could strangle him a little.
Some hipster band is playing, heavy on the cowbell. It's probably the same artist responsible for the seventeen dollar CD that's lying in front of the registers, right next to the cup holders and the straws. The female vocalist sounds like a cat in heat.
I'm remembering now why I don't like Starbucks. The baristas are too chatty and the music is lame. I bet someone told them that they will make more sales if they chat up the customers first. Someone stupid.
“Thanks a lot,” I say, when the guy hands me my coffee. If he registers the burr of sarcasm in my voice he doesn't acknowledge it, though the way he hands my cup to me, a drop of burning espresso splashes over the side to spatter the back of my hand, leaving a red mark that won't fade for days. I don't flinch, careful not to spill any more of the drink.
But my eyes, when I look at him
, say, You did that on purpose, you pencil-dicked moron.
Caffeine is a drug. A lot of people don't know that, but its true and it is. Anything that alters your brain's chemistry could be considered a drug. The caffeine kicks its legs like a bucking horse in my bloodstream, forcing me to walk it off. My head, on the other hand, feels like a floating balloon. I wonder dreamily whether it will pop before or after I faint.
I have a fleeting desire for a shot of rum to ground me before I remember that alcohol—and my overdoing of it—is what got me into this condition in the first place. Alcohol is a drug too, and a lot of people don't know that, either. My psychiatrist does and has warned me that I should steer clear of all mind-altering substances.
Like most good advice she gives me, I chose not to heed it. Kicking the antidepressant habit is a bitch, and I need all the help I can get. It's probably a good thing I'm too young to buy alcohol or get into a bar. There are ways around the law, of course, but they are more than I'm willing to pay at the moment. But only by a small margin. I could get desperate; I often do.
When I went to Cherry Hill they diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder, which I'd never even heard of before they checked me in, and which I was half-convinced they had made up just then on the spot. What does that even fucking mean, borderline personality? That I'm only part of a person? If so, just what the hell is it that I'm missing?
They were sympathetic and condescending as hell, patting me on the shoulder and telling me they understood without actually addressing any of my questions and concerns. Depression, they told me, is just a natural and unfortunate side-effect. We understand your confusion and anxiety.
Well, sure, because when depression is the side-effect you know you're in fucking trouble. How could I not feel a little confused and worried about that, unless being borderline means I don't have emotions either? No? That's something at least. I'm so glad you understand my situation because I fucking don't.
I was told not to swear to which I informed them that this wasn't a fucking bible study group and I'd do as I bloody well damned pleased, assholes.