Fucking Under the Influence

“You’ve come a long way,” I joke glancing around the basement. “This one is bigger.” Half of the space is a graveyard of bicycles and parts.  The other half is a makeshift bedroom composing of several mostly deflated air mattresses piled on each other and a couple of cheap plastic drawers overflowing with black shirts.

He doesn’t look back, just a murmur of inattention as he rolls the joint. His thick fingers nimbly shape the cylinder perfectly before lifting it to his mouth to drag his tongue across the thin, white paper. After smoothing and examining it, he tosses it onto a pile of dozens more. He swivels on the office chair towards me. His face lacks emotion, as if completely mentally worn out.  “Which do you want?”

“Like, sativa or indicia?”

“No. But that does answer me. How much?” His tone is infuriating.

“An eighth of each,” I spit back. He turns around and opens one of the side drawers, taking out half-filled grocery bags. “Hey dickhead,” I stress. “Don’t treat me like another one of your fucking customers.”

“Don’t act like one.” He weighs out nugs from each of the bags and places the contents in sandwich-size resealable bags. “You didn’t even call to say you were in town.” He tosses each bag on the floor, at my feet.

“Surprise,” I respond dryly. I bend over, pick up the two bags, and cramp them into the side pocket of my purse. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? ” I cringe as soon as the word escapes.

“You’re not my fucking customer, remember?” His mouth twists into what resembles a smirk, or at least something pleasant. I can’t remember any time I’ve seen a conventional smile on his face. He has always been short, dark, and brooding. “Want to smoke?”

“Never thought you would ask.”

He grabs a joint from the desk’s pile and pats his body down presumably looking for a lighter, finally pulling out a book of matches from his wallet. He takes a couple of tokes as I look around the room for somewhere to sit. He stands abruptly, exhaling smoke as he gestures to the only chair. “Sit, sit.”

“Thanks,” I whisper as he passes me the joint. Inhaling deeply, I watch the cherry crackle as it burns the mid grade weed. It’s been a week since I last smoked. My tongue rolls the smoke around like kissing a familiar lover.

He squats on the floor by the office chair, leaning his arm against the edge of the seat and my thigh. “This is part of a business venture,” his hand waves at the bicycles. His forehead wrinkles the same way it did in class when the teacher asked him a question. The same look when he’s humiliated, mad, and trying to mask his fears. It took me years to identify that expression.

“Oh, yeah! I saw your page online.” I pass back the joint.

He nods affirmatively. “Got more ink,” he says with an uptone and I can’t tell if he’s asking or telling.

“Yeah?”

He hands back the joint and stretches his shirt off to reveal a nearly identical copy of him ten years ago. He points to his chest, ‘Mommy’s little abortion’ written in cursive that fades to scribble. Again at his shoulder for Frankenstein’s monster lighting a cigarette. “There’s one more,” he hesitates. “I gotta take my pants off.”

I shrug. “You’ve been inside me.” I inhale and blow the smoke towards him.

He slides his pants down until they drop to his ankles. I’m at cock height to his black boxer briefs. His body has aged like wine. Still tone and muscular but with a sharper face, from losing the baby fat. His fingertips wrap around the hem of his underwear and he slowly drags the material up, exposing more of his upper thigh and thin letters.

“Are you fucking kidding?” I exclaim dropping to my knees for a closer inspection. “When the fuck did you get this?”

“A year after you left. Pretty stupid. I was drunk,” he trails.

“I’ll tell you what’s pretty fucking stupid!” Grabbing the elastic of his briefs I tear them down to his ankles and suck his dick until it’s that massive hard cock that has not moved from my top three list.

His hands tuck under my underarms to haul me to my feet. Wrapped in his arms, he kisses me hard, his erection pressing against me. He looks back at his pile of deflated mattress and blankets.

My hands wrap around his face so I can stare into his dark russet eyes. “It is 2006.” I bite and suck on his juicy bottom lip. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Make me stay.”

His lips find mine again with as much passion but softer. He sweeps my legs up so he is holding me. With the joint still between my fingers, I press the clip between his lips to inhale.

To be continued…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s