real live girl

When you stand at the edge before they can clear the corner. You can meet their eyes when they see you, and they make the split decision to find a direction. That’s the good one.

I watch them pace along the outer edge of the street to avoid the sidewalk. It’s funny how they do that. The big ones clomping with a drag across the concrete from the injury. All of the little ones. The ones with enough physical vitality to look straight past.

Hold it close enough to your pockets for them to wonder what’s happening in front of them. Better if you’re hard. Better if you see them trace the outline.

I bring it to her. The safe one. When they can’t shake the feeling like they’re one in the world and they look to you with their big wide eyes and a clinging touch like you know a different kind of sympathy. They’re the only one who has ever felt it. Each shake in their hands makes mental lines back to where it came from. It’s not special. I pet her hair and hope that’s enough.

I know I was inside, but I remember watching it through the window in the office. The blinds were drawn but if you pressed your face against the glass you could see through the slats. There was rarely anyone there to see it anyway, and if they were there, they’d still be on the phone. Anyone can picture a man slipping an envelope across, or putting the picture of a knife in someone’s head. It’s more of an aging bitch making the call alone at her desk.

Do you think Brad Pitt and George Clooney are gay? Together. I mean. They just have that feeling. I read one time that Katie Holmes found Tom Cruise having sex with the guy from Matchbox Twenty and she kept quiet. My father was part gay. That’s why he only ever did it in my ass. So what do you think.

I could feel the weight of them sitting on my back before they were there. Becoming a fixture. Leaving an imprint deep enough to become one.

The twin mattress in the corner of the kitchen beside a grey storage bin and two trash bags full of costumes and street clothes. On top is a small, decades old dirty stuffed lamb with a pink embroidered verse.

She looks smaller today. Crossed into the pillow with the previous indentation. A little open cut on her leg. I feel her contract around my finger. She’s not as huggy, now that she’s older. If she makes it out, she’ll go to therapy for years to be able to take anything without pain but I know what won't leave her.

when i was little i would imagine:
being in your class or in the bathroom or in a room. someone rips my clothes off and hits me with their fists and hurts me really deep on the floor until i know i’m dead. you come in and notice him and tell him to get off me. we’ve never made love before, but you were someone who made me feel safe and you always secretly really loved me. you are the only one in the entire world who knew what my dad did because i trusted you enough. i loved you.

this is the first time you’ve seen me naked. my body is really hurt and there’s a lot of blood, and i’m shivering in front of you. you unbutton your pants and force your love onto me, telling me how much you are grateful for me and what a wonderful time it was getting to share a life with me for just a single moment.

i’m really scared and we cry together and you hold me tighter and tighter, gasping in your arms until i feel you fill me with your warm love and i die.

I pound her cunt on the mattress, fast enough to get myself off without involving her. I pull out and cum on her stomach. She takes what we agreed on.
Making the connection is enough.