Andrew Lafleche is an award-winning poet and the author of ten books, including No Diplomacy and Ride. He is editor of Gravitas Poetry. Lafleche holds a Master of Arts in Creative and Critical Writing from the University of Gloucestershire. He lives in the Ottawa Valley. Visit AndrewLafleche.com for more information.
Just Another Tuesday Morning
I was sitting at my desk, half-drunk on wine, freezing in my concrete jail of an apartment, and wondering what to do next.
She lay on the carpet, back facing me, huddled against the brown microfiber at the base of the couch. Black hair, black hoodie, black leggings, great ass. I kicked off the side of the desk and spun in my leather swivel chair. Probably the only piece of quality furniture in the dump. It’s spinning I spotted the line on the bookcase that one of us had forgot.
Raised waste not, want not, I hurried to the corner of the room and nostrilled it back before she woke up. That’s what you get for being a bitch—not a woman, I would never call a woman a bitch; no, someone who promises so much potential at the beginning of the three-day binge, but barely into the second day after drinking the last of the whiskey before the liquor store re-opened in the morning and instead passes out on the wine stained carpet and nary the courtesy to spread her legs and let me dip inside a minute, but instead sidles up the couch and snores away, kind of bitch. Like a pussy.
Well, you lock into a bender with ol’ Johnny Bradford, then you’re going all the way, ma’am.
At least that’s what I’ve been told. All-in-Johnny, or something like that.
I swallowed the drip, grabbed the bag of wine from the trash, and squeezed out a shot glass worth of cabernet. I paced the room and chortled realizing I was pacing the room. The people below my apartment must have hated me.
For some reason, that thought, that little bit of wine, and that last line instilled a masculine confidence I’ve only ever experienced four times before in my thirty-three years on this shithole of planet.
Because I am a man, I can do whatever the fuck I want.
It’s that moment when some over-confident nobody decides that today is the day where he won’t take it anymore and finally stands up for himself against the meathead hitting on his girlfriend and cocks back to punch the cigar-face straight in his snout—and when he has and stands rubbing his fairy-fist in his other hand, he realizes he’s just unleashed a whole lot of ugly into the world.
I’m the meathead.
And that’s the male confidence America was built on.
Meathead doesn’t have to kick the shit out of the pansy, though he could, and he wouldn’t be wrong to do so—he can simply grin, narrow his eyes ever so slightly, palm his own mouth and stroke his chin once before shaking his head, sucking his lips and saying, “Now why’d you go and do something stupid like that?”
Meathead knows he doesn’t have anything to prove, it’s in his eyes. Instead, he returns his attention to the woman, come ‘on baby, and takes her away. That’s male confidence. To take whatever the fuck you want, because who’s going to stop you?
And I felt it right then and there. Her laying lifeless on the floor. You’re going all the way, bitch.
I one handed my belt and let the clasp hang. It jingled as I fingered the button on my jeans. I always wear Levi’s, you know why? Because men wear Levi’s.
Unzipped my fly. Grunted. Did it again. Primal.
We started this particular bender the way all benders begin. At the start: She showed up leaning against the door frame, hair tied back, eyeliner tight around her ice blue eyes, grinning daring-like and singsonging, “I’ve got a surprise.”
She giggled raising a matte black giftbag over her head and pushed past me into the apartment. One of two ways this was going to go down, and both meant a broke bank account and bloody Kleenexes before we finished.
“You are literally fucking killing me how dick-ma-tized I am,” she said cupping her full chest with a lift and wiggling slightly to readjust. Naked she has a little tag beside her left nipple makes it look like she’s got three. It’s her insatiable cock hunger that had me glued from the start. That she always showed up with blow and Jäger sealed the deal.
“When do you work next?” I asked in faux concern.
She already had a baggie untied and was using her laminated Blockbuster card to divvy up some lines.
“That’s so cute,” she whined. “You’re trying to be responsible.” She slapped the card on the table and handed me the candy cane striped straw. “Just sniff this and shut up. Girls’ got needs.”
In the bedroom she pushed me on the mattress, gripped my belt and yanked it free from around my waist. She bit over my boxers and moaned a depraved growl. Before I could say throat-fucker she had my purple onion pressed against her tonsils and tongue fluttering about lapping at my balls.
The only fucking thing I didn’t overly care for about this broad and her eagerness is her imitating one-too-many a low-budget porno where the girls always slurp and gag and tear while hoovering. I mean, a professional could execute the same scene without a peep less the occasional blessed sigh and pleasing desired eyes. Beggars can’t be choosers, and Ol’ Johnny Bradford ain’t no beggar chump.
She’s got me all edge of the precipice, soaked like a peddo at a preschool, down my shaft, coating my cue balls and lubing my ass when lighting jolt sears my eyes, my stomach contracts and my euphoria vanishes as fire explodes my anus.
I must have passed out it hurt so much ‘cause when I opened my eyes, shit was not how I’d left it.
It took me a second, that smoothed purple baton resting on my lips, I squirmed and focused my eyes—discombobulated is a word right?—the Bitch was straddling my stomach, black strapped harness around her white pale skin with a 8-inch purple baton erect from where her vagina should have been, grinning.
“Guess you should have asked what the surprise was,” she said with a shrug.
I pushed her off of me and sat up.
“It’s called pegging, asshole,” she pouted.
My ass stung. More than stung. My ass bled. Or at least it felt like it should be bleeding.
She stroked her purple shaft. “Don’t be such a baby, god, I’ve pissed in your mouth before.”
I dodged the remark. “Something goes in yours first.”
“Anything, anytime,” she said proudly, then sighed. “You’re such a fucking buzzkill, you know that.”
She looked kinda sexy, nude less the harness and throbbing silicon cock, and I told her so.
“‘Moments passed, dick. I need a drink.”
For a minute, I stood above her—not second guessing myself, more admiring the prize. It was religious. Felt along for her waistband, tucked both sets of digits inside. Her skin was supple, limp almost, but warm. The blood stirred in me.
The trick with getting a broad’s pants off unnoticed while she’s passed out is to take your time. You don’t rush right in and yank the things down—she might wake up—then you’re fucked.
Go slow, and if you wonder if you’re going too slow, you’re not. Slow down, do it again. The reward is always worth the effort.
Let me tell you, when I finally got her Lululemon spandex snug around her thighs, I was throbbing. If I caught a breeze I would have nutted.
A little bit of spit for the tip—you want to be a gentleman about it—then I rested the helmet on her cheeks. The thing was Crayola-purple against her My-fair-lady-white. She had a Jew star drawn in black Sharpie just below her hip. I released my grip and inspected my palm. Sure enough, a swastika.
I forget why we drew these ridiculous emblems on each other, but here they were, evidence of our ludicrous in the preceding hours. Something about using my righteous hand to slap her Jew ass—and the irony being, of course, my Shylock nose.
The blood lessened and the purple began to fade. I could fuck her any time I wanted. It would have been like stealing from a buffet. Goddam permanent marker. Perfectly good ass. I patted her bottom as I thought what to do instead.
Okay, okay—you’re going to think me crude, and maybe I was, but let me tell you: Jackson Pollock’s art is crude and it sells for a hundred and forty million dollars.
I’m not saying I’m up there with Pretty Boy Pollock. I’m just saying, she said: anything, anytime.
Initially I thought about sticking the cap-end in first, probably some Pavlovian instinct because that’s the end you write with—thank Christ for my lizard brain because suddenly I wondered what would happen when the damn thing uncapped inside? And you know it would because all those stories of fairy-fisted nobodies showing up in emergency having to undergo surgery because the Hot Wheel they inserted, the Pert shampoo bottle, the goddam lightbulb—hand to Christ—was there one moment, and for no fucking reason except the suppository wanting nothing to do with the pervert experience saw an opportunity and like a gofer in farmer Bill’s potash field dove head first into the poop chute. You’re damn straight the cap would have broken free and disappeared.
She would have had a fit, too, all stopped up, going to the doctors and finding a Sharpie permanent marker cap shadowed on her x-ray. Of course she would have blamed me.
Call it a science experiment. I spit in my hand. It took a couple times on account of all the blow we’d consumed. Ran the marker back-and-forth to lube it up, then poked the chocolate covered starfish.
A limp body, impossible to lift, is surprisingly welcoming to foreign objects. Soon as I set the spit-dripping grey tip of the Sharpie against the pinprick center of the starfish, it relented. Spiraled open like a camera shutter and latched on like it was chewing a finger.
The entire thing caught me off guard. I paused. Hypothesized it needed a little more lube, then applied a gentle pressure. That’s paramount. You have to be gentle. Just like not yanking the pants down, you have to go slow. More women would be open to ass-fucking if more men would just slow down. Slow down, do it again. Breathe. All that yuppie shit. Nice, slow, consistent pressure. Add a little more spittle, and before I knew it, I was breaking the cap line and almost out of marker when I thought maybe I should pull back a little, but as soon as the thought entered my mind, the son-of-a-bitch dove headfirst into the land of gofers.
For what must have been five minutes I just stared at her asshole. One minute it’s a pinprick, a bunch of nondescript seashell crevasses spiraling towards her supple My-fair-lady-white ass cheeks, next minute it’s dislocated its jaw to swallow a six-inch goddam Sharpie, then bam! Pinprick again like it didn’t just swallow a permanent marker.
I’m imagining her getting cramps after not shitting for two days: her bloated gut; a little seepage; how she’ll go to the doctor, he’ll snap the rubber glove, pop a finger in to pressure activate the rectum; trouble shoot with an x-ray and discover what couldn’t be—is that what I think it is—there’s no way—a Sharpie?—Hoover damming her intestines; starting to panic when the son-of-a-bitch shot out her ass cheeks like a heat seeking missile.
My laugh woke her up, “What are you doing?” I’m caught literally with my pants down, her ass exposed, so I tell her the truth, “I was going to stick it in your ass, baby.”
She was in that perfect dreamwake state, not really sleeping but not really here, one-hundred percent suggestable, so I thought, maybe.
“Is there a star on my ass?” she asked. She thumbed at her waistband and tugged at her Lulu’s. She tilted her hips and leaned closer into the couch. “I just had the weirdest dream about a Sharpie.”
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