Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

by McCutcheon
I wake up. Still unstable. It smells like cunt and burnt coffee.

I look over and see the cause of the odors. I am not alone. The whore I slept with last night hasn't left yet. She is sitting at the table a few feet from me, nakedly enjoying an espresso.

Debauched memories are hard enough to forget. Physical remembrance is not called for. I want to be alone.

I roll over. Hide my head under the pillow. Hibernate, hoping if I ignore her she will go away.

Under my comforter cave of blankets and sheets I am met with a used condom. The discharge spills on my face. I get a mixture of sterile chemical lubricate, sticky pussy sauce and curdled cum in my eye.

Surprisingly it doesn't sting. Still, I gag on the thought of cold semen in my iris.

Panic attack!

Can I get HIV from her secretions entering my eyeball?

The universal rhetorical questions come floating into my conscious. Bliss of sex. Pain of Life. Non-option of death. What a dangerous game. Unfocused elation of the hedonist playing William Tell with the buffer blur of Suicide Sue.

Aim. Shoot. Fire.

I need to check back into the human hospital. Take the pain away. Right now everything is hyper-kinetic fuck up salvation. I hang on for dear life. In a few hours I am supposed to meet some friends. Pretend everything is normal. Preposterous prevarication.

What is supposed to bring pleasure now delivers sorrow. When I see a beautiful woman it reinforces my loneliness. People are a reminder of my exiled state in society. I am still looking for the escape clause in my contract. I want out of the everyday here and now.

I can't talk. My speech is impaired. Nothing makes sense. Going through the motions, faking the emotion, in a downward spiral. Functions on Kamikaze auto pilot.

Every night I am chasing love in the delusion of drugs. Getting high. Wasted. Dumb with numbness until I am socially acceptable.

I want to lick and kiss and swallow love with a woman. Not with some whore. Someday I hope to come around. Be someone my parents would have been proud of. Have a wife and kids of my own who will never know the life I used to live.

Wait.

I didn't pay for sex last night. I actually met this girl at some East Village bar around four a.m. We shared a taxi home. The cabby told us it was against his religion for people to make out in his cab.

The sex I don't recall. I wouldn't even think I experienced an orgasm last night if it wasn't for the proof in my pupil.

I suffocate my dry heave. Poke head out from under pillow. Look at this debutante of the damned. Still sitting at the table. No recollection.

She has a slim sinewy physique. Painted and punctured. Bones and veins visible under her dyed skin. Very little natural flesh in-between the tattoos. Silver rings hang from her exposed labia, belly button, left nipple, right nostril and both eyebrows. Curiously she has no earrings.

Can't look away from her. It's only after I get past the human graffiti that I realize she is the most pulchritudinous girl I've ever seen. Jet black hair. Big blue eyes the sea of green. Chiseled facial features of perfection. Smallish perky stand-up tits. Exposed cunt wet and willing. The semblance of a decadent goddess. The type of deity better men than me would die for.

But I am still in a cocaine and alcohol haze. Self-deleterious state. James Bond ticking time bomb count down destruction. I have resolved to the fact nobody is going to snip the right wire at the last minute.

Drowning my sorrows has left me dehydrated. The poisons curse. Screaming their withdrawal. Could use a drink. I want her to leave.

Still staring, I reach down and grab my bruised pelvis. It must have been a hell of a grind. I run fingers through my pubic hair. Slowly massage my penis.

The beauty insolently lights a cigarette. Starts chopping up my remaining cocaine with a few pills I don't think I own. Fast. Proficient. Not missing a granule. She startles me by turning her head and asking me a statement.

"You're up."

"Yes."

"I have breakfast." Chop chop chop.

"What is it?"

"Just your cocaine with some codeine. Not a speed ball or anything."

She stands up. My cock stiffens. Is it attraction to this girl? Or have my fingers worked my dick hard. I don't think my torn heart and exploded mind have anything to do with the throb I feel.

With a steady hand she brings over a compact disc covered in white chalky dust. The powder is in a pile that almost covers the whole plastic case.

The drugs aren't in any lines. I lean over on my side. Snort as hard as I can with both nostrils.

Burning.

Buzz.

It sends my head back to the pillow.

I want to cough. Throw up. That would be weak. I close my mouth. Suck through my nasal passage. Take it all in. The buzz overpowers the burn. I lie there happy I didn't lose anything that could keep me from getting high.

The girl snorts. Longer than I did. Must have real power.

She climbs over me. Gets under the covers. Her front is pressed against my back. She grabs my dick. Her hand delicate in masterful probing. She brings me up.

Then her hand leaves me. Goes back to the CD case. Holds it under my nose. I inhale. Suck for as long as I can.

Bam!

I fucking feel it.

She snorts. Her whole body convulsing from the rush.

I turn toward her. Want to be inside her. Gonna give her a good one. She pushes me in the opposite direction. On my stomach. Starts kissing my back. Grabbing little mouthfuls of flesh as she works her way down my spine. Her hands go to my ass.

I feel the cocaine and codeine cruise through my veins. The pleasure caresses everything. Chemical gratification so intense I feel like I am losing control of all functions.

The girl spreads my butt cheeks apart. Her saliva wetting the crevice. She buries her tongue deep into my rectum. Hits the fabled male G-spot. God fucking damn it. My eyeballs roll upward under closed lids.

I forget all about meeting my friends to play football in Central Park.
Back to Short Story Menu