Posts Tagged ‘neurotic erotica’

Village Girls – Kick it!

The night was awful, sitting there, in some club, outside of reality, but there in time, you could feel your skin pulsating against the music playing around you, happy people dancing around you.

You were on your seventh expensive cocktail when the drugs took hold, the world stopped spinning, creating an energy vortex, Jesus Christ was there, trying to find his phone he lost in 1983.

Jim came in, waved at me, life of the party, the room stopped for just a second, to turn and look and wave back.

The end was near, you could feel it, in the marrow of your bones, trying to consume you, trying to kill you, trying to eat you from the inside out, the drugs weren’t working, just a placebo, you knew it, but the doctors kept positive.

“David, we can’t tell you which group you’re in but your blood numbers are good…good….really good….”

They were lying sacks of shit, you knew it, you could feel the cancer, down below the skin, in your soul, moving slowly into your brain.

“Are you thinking or does your face always looks like that?” Jim was sitting near me, his after shave burning my eyes.

I smiled and nodded.

“Who shit in your Cheerios?”

I shrugged.

He knew, he knew everything, my go to friend, when I needed to cry, he understood, he was dying too, liver was going, too many Saturday nights on the dance floor, tripping, on whatever was the designer drug of the time, but his kidneys were fine, which always made him smile when he said it.

“Lets fuck this place!” he laughed and ordered a beer, some kind of brew that only he knew.

We drank, well, Jim was drinking, I sipped, trying to find my center of the universe.

Two women of the prostitute variety wandered over to us. The ugly one of the pair sat on my knee, smiling.

“You guys looking for fun time?”

Jim smiled, shrugged.

“We could be…”

They all laughed, a part of our nightly ritual, Sarah, the girl on my knee was my off and on girlfriend, Jim’s lady, Doris, but known through out the city as Angel, were okay, for a pair of fellows like us.

They ordered shots, something to clean their pallets of jock cum and such.

“Nightmares all around!” Jim yelled and the crowd yelled their approval.

Nightmares were moonshine for the lack of a better word laced on the rim with cocaine and some kind of Molly meth carted up from Alabama.

There was a strawberry for garnish, I always ate the rum soaked treat.

By the end of the night, everyone was dead or dying, but didn’t care as they hooked up for the ride home, to make love, to fuck, to masturbate to the Weather Channel for those who didn’t get nothing but a Nightmare, to go, cause their moms worried.

Three days later, I was in the hospital, exploration surgery, to remove something, my soul I believe.

Back in time, 1988, the first time I met Jim, we were both young and dumb, freshmen in college, our first time on our own, from home, I was drinking a beer, my dad’s brand, Budweiser.

Jim smiled and sat next to me.

“I’m not gay but I could fuck you!” he said to me.

We both laughed.

We tried sleeping together a few times but discovered we were better as neurotic club kids, worshiping the cheerleaders and fantasy girls and guys who wandered in and out of our lives.

We were both Indiana bred, different sections of the state but same parents.

Our fathers were racist corn farmers, mothers always smiling, high on something, but we could never prove it.

Back to the present, waking up in a recovery room, white walls, too white to be real, was this death?

A few days later, sitting in an office, talking to a doctor, “We have some news…”

6 months, tops, my life would end.

I didn’t even cry.

I made my way to the club.

Jim was there.

He already knew by the look on my face.

“Nightmares all around!” Jim yelled and the crowd yelled their approval.

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Standing above a lifetime,
Of lies,
Of diseased minds,
Settled into a muck of misery,
Standing kindly,
Reaching out for a life line,
Failing at this thing called life,
Into the night,
Somewhere,
Up above,
Up there,
High into these wonderful moments,
Captured briefly into senile states,
A kiss,
A lie,
Final goodbye,
For that beauty,
To see in God’s eyes,
A flaming arrow,
Sideways,
Into the burning sun,
Flying,
Through that sky of blue,
To fall gracefully,
To that ground,
Buried into flesh of life,
To kill,
To die,
To live,
To lie,
Maybe,
In time,
It shall be alright,
To be fine,
To survive,
Ah, Melody,
Dear sweet Melody,
How have thy changed thy mind?
Good bye…

Sweetly the sun rose into a cloudless sky, 1982, when Sullivan was still alive, before he even knew what cancer was going to do to his stomach, and take him away from his wife and young song, 1998.

We stood in a desert, that place where we began our journey, from that blacked and broken house.

I was 19, old enough to know better, young enough not to care.

“Dream big boy!” my father, dying in some poor man’s hospital in Washington State, told me, pushing a twenty dollar bill in my hand.

He’d be dead in a week.

I don’t remember who thought of the idea; but we were sitting in a bar in Butte, Montana.

Annie was drinking her 9th beer; grabbing onto the bar stool with her hands, spinning around, giggling like a little school girl high on something she called life.

“We got to go further man; to the east!!” Frankie, the brash young man from UCLA we had met in Seattle, the place we began our journey, who became our navigator, the only one in the group with a highway map and enough sense of direction to know which way was east.

At some point on the trip, Marilyn, a school teacher from Livingston, Montana jumped on board. By the time we reached Fargo, North Dakota, she and I were “slumping to the grind” as she called it, sleeping together in some dive of a motel on the side of the road.

To avoid the eyes of some crabby motel owner, we’d register as newlyweds, “Honeymooners” we’d gleefully say, smiling, almost believing our own story. Annie and Sullivan would do the same.

That first night, we broke a chair, as I pushed Marilyn up on top of the desk, her legs spreading, gaining me access to her, as our mouths pressed hard against each other, my hands slipping up and inside of her, soon to be replaced by my hard cock.

Hours that first night; the bed, the desk, the floor, in the shower, pressed against the wall, my tongue moving down her neck, swirling over her hard extended nipples, in, out, moans, deep thrust, screams, hard, faster, she cries out, her finger nails digging into my back.

Honeymooners; drunk, on lust, hard fuck, almost too much, maybe not an act, it had only been 900 miles, fast relationship.

Frankie was alone in this misadventure, to find ourselves in this American dream, we had to lose ourselves.

He tried to find some misfit to call his own, landing at the nearest crap watering hole; Jim’s Bar, somewhere in Minnesota, cocktail waitress.

They spent the night talking; mostly about her disasters of relationships; 42 and feeling like she had been ran over by a semi-truck going 90.

“I have a sister in Duluth…” Marilyn said as we sat and ate at a cafe for breakfast.

“What she look like?” Frankie asked, dunking some toast into the mush he had ordered with extra butter on each.

“Like me, only bigger tits!” she giggled.

Andrea was a pretty girl, could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch from fifty feet; or so the local boys said so.

She met us at some bus stop; Marilyn made the introductions.

“Where you guys heading?” she asked, as we gathered up into the car once more, pushing the vehicle back on the road.

“East!” I said, my fingers swirling through the air, “East till we cannot go east no more!!”

And my dear reader, that is truly when the adventure began.