Late Night Grifters
By MorganLikely
I remember she showed up lightly tapping on the front door of my apartment in the dead hours of night, when it's all a quiet hush and the tomcats croon atop alleyway fences. She's was all lit up with a child-like deviance, a knowing smirk showing divine knowledge with the teeth bare in a wet pearly nakedness, lips moist and flush between rose colored cheeks. I could smell the cheap wine and jazz music of smoke filled bars coming off her in a wave of intoxication, hands turning cold and clammy, a tickling sickness in the stomach and a warm feeling that starts at the base of the neck and slowly works its way up.
We made our way back into my room, bathed in a red light and a neon flickering coming from outside my window with a dull electronic hum, a warm summer breeze rustling the curtains into a dance of silhouettes and carrying with it the smell of big city rains. She made herself comfortable without invitation, sprawling out across my bed like warm milk as I sat smoking a cigarette in my windowsill listening to the last of the cars pass by below on their way home from a tired night of drinking, dogs yelping to one another in the distance in their canine Morse Code. Something about cheap cigarettes and fire escapes always brought me back to an old picture I once saw that was taken by some queer Beat kike in New York.
She had a prior commitment doing a grip of time up in County, dismounted for her equestrian activities for nearly a year (Death rides atop a pale horse), waiting for the cage to spring open so the birds could fly free and start the reformed life of white picket fences, Sunday drives, and ice-cream. But those were different places and different times and different people. All that mattered at this point was the here and the now. Her laying on my bed in a red halter top with breasts like clusters of grapes aching to break out of their soft cotton confinement to the ravishing of my tongue and the tan flesh of her legs peeking out of a thin black skirt with a slit traveling so suggestively up the side. Whatever could she have wanted with a lone recluse like me at such an hour as this?
"I got a gift from the Mexicans today" she says and suddenly there's a slight tingle in the crotch and the ears get hot. Out comes a tiny black mass of divinity shrouded in cellophane and the uncontrollable urge to suck the bittersweet smell squished between her fingers. Flicking my cigarette out the window I make my way into the tiny bathroom, throw open the medicine cabinet and remove the works needed to set-up a drug fueled fuck festival for two. I sit on the bed next to her, taking the shrink-wrapped package from her hands and begin the ritualistic process of burning this midnight oil.
"I'm going to need you to hit me," she says, so matter-of-factly, tossing her hair aside and tilting her head with a slow seductive smile. She looks like a carbon copy of Madeleine Stowe and I can't figure out what exactly I want to do first - rip her clothes off and pump her till the juice flows out or jam this needle in my arm so I can snuggle up under that warm flannel blanket of junk. I quickly shake those images from my mind, no matter how sweet they may sound and proceed with more important business at hand. I nod my consent in silence - sure, I'll hit you baby but only after me; the good Doctor needs a steady hand when he operates. The needle hits its mark with all the familiarity of a son returning home after years of fighting someone else's wars overseas and suddenly that feeling of someone hitting you in the back of the neck with a bucket full of warm water spreads out to all the areas of my body, an internal orgasm that's so much better than squirting those little white demons from the tip of your cock overtakes me with a warm reassurance like doing that whole crawling from the cradle to the grave in reverse and returning back to the body where you were born. I close my eyes and sigh with visions of fetal peace and placentas and the beating of my Mother's heart singing me to sleep. I feel her warm hand sliding up my arm and it causes me to open my eyes.
"You okay baby?" she asks and "Never felt better" is my reply. I smile and grab her wrist, twisting it so the veins above her forearm face my way and slip the belt around her slender arm above. I caress and tap the smooth skin until I find a willing victim and insert the needle slowly with a sexual tenderness and grace. The light brown solution inside the syringe is flagged with a thermonuclear detonation of blood exploding in a mushroom cloud of red as the plunger is pressed home and warmth overtakes her body. She collapses back down in a heap with smiles and sighs and I can picture the warm wind cooling naked flesh soaked in sweat, lungs aching for air, gasping exhaustion as innocence settles to a state of primal relaxation, carnal satisfaction, twisted limbs and sleep. The bad thing about junk is that it kills a man's sex drive - dead - but at the same time it seems to drive women into a state of horniness delight.
"Come here" she says, opening her eyes and pulling me down until our mouths come crashing against one another. Her tongue wrestles with mine in an arena of one mouth that we've created together and our bodies grind against one another with the savagery of lust. Her hands travel down my body until they find that defunct bulge that lies below and her fingers hungrily attack my belt and buttoned trousers, attempting to let loose the snake so that it can bring a violent satisfaction to the quivering lips below. I pull myself away from her and hold her back, noticing the surprised look upon her face wondering what could be wrong. "Just lay back" I say "lay back and relax." I'm so fucking loaded right now that there's no way on Earth that I can perform but that ain't no reason why she should go unsatisfied.