N.S.F.W (Mature readers only.)
So this is an excerpt from my short story collection titled 'Alligators.' (It's pretty close to being finished, and I'm incredibly happy and it's gonna be awesome and you should buy it.) This is about 4 pages in so I'll fill you in on the stuff you missed;
Lindsay Griffin has a reputation for being a man eater. She broke one of the narrator's best friend's hearts ( and wallets) so now the narrator as somehow ended up in bed with her. He concocts and plan to punish the evil Lindsay Griffin; He plans to rub her underwear on a stray cat so she has an allergic reaction. This excerpt picks up right after the narrator leaves the bed. So with out further ado, I give you
'A mistake involving a cat.'
The panties were white with a pink trim. I've been told that a girl will spare no expense when it comes to underwear, and that in the event that they believe they are going to have sex, they will wear certain pairs of underwear, as one last layer of seduction, one last nail in the coffin, one last reason to cum to early. If this was true, the panties that Lindsay wore last night had no indication she had intended to spend the night with me. These were private panties, these aren't panties one wears for seduction, these are the panties you wear under your sweatpants while you eat your 3rd bowl of cereal on an idle Sunday. I grab them off the floor, stealthy, like a perverted ninja. She groans and meets the waking world, I panic for a split second and drop the panties and pretend to be checking my jeans.
“Heh, well good mornin’. You always get up this early?” The witch spoke.
“Not all the time.” I say apprehensively, like a child meeting a weird Aunt for the first time.
“So then what are you doing up, come back to bed, you were keeping me warm.” She says in with kind and vulnerable cadence and a more naive man would have fallen for the act, but I had x-ray vision when it came to mushy bedroom talk. It’s all savory lies. You see, bedroom talk is just the remnants of the dream world. Before the dream world dissipates like a fog, your subconscious is left with a few technicolor clumps of dream mist. That what bedroom talk is. That’s why no one says anything romantic at 2:30 pm, because you’re wide awake and the dream world is completely incinerated away.
“ Doesn't your pact with the devil keep you warm?” I say to her.
“What, Oh my God you’re so weird.” She groans out, almost singing it. She stretches her body out and her breast peek out from the cover. They are stupendous; the perfect circumference, like a crop circles. Alien sculpted. If her spirit wasn't so repulsive, I might have contracted a boner. (I realize I used the term ‘contracted’ in reference to an erection, as if were a disease, and yes, at times that is how I feel about boners.)
“But seriously, what are you doing up?” She asks me, now laying on her side facing the wall, grabbing at the covers for warmth.
“I’m gonna have a cigarette.” I lie.
“Oh, well have one of my, you let me bum so many of yours last night. They are in my purse.”
“Where’s your purse?”
“It’s in the living room I think.”
“I’m surprised you remember that.”
“Yeah. I’m surprised you’re even alive after last night. You were so drunk.” Her voice is muffled by the pillow. She was right, it is no small feat that I’m alive right now. I have this technique, this drinking technique that I hope one day to teach my kids. It’s called ‘cyborg mode’ it’s a practice in which you drink fast and without capitulation. You do this in hopes of obliterating the conscious, entering a sort of auto-pilot mode, you become a human who is driven by pure instinct, scarcely human and scarcely animal. You become, basically a cyborg. It’s a nifty little trick I learned, and can really make a night exciting, or it can wind you up in jail, or missing your kidney or even worse, in bed with Lindsay Griffin.
“Yeah, I've had a lot of practice at drinking.”
“That’s code for you’re a raging alcoholic who should seek help immediately.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I’m just kidding. Go smoke that cig.”
Before I leave the room I discretely grab the panties. In the living room I notice a box of pizza on the table. Cold pizza is my life blood, so I make a detour for a slice. Upon opening the box I find a cigarette sticking out of the final slice like a flag on the face of the moon. A heinous act, undoubtedly perpetrated by Lindsay. I pick a pepperoni from the slice, eat it and start to look for her purse. Going through a woman’s purse is like going through your mothers closet, you may find your Christmas present early, or you may find her turbo speed, bifurcated dildo. Lucky I find the cigarettes before I stumble across anything too gross, besides her coconut flavored gum. What sick person would want the thick, encumbering taste of a coconut in their mouth for that long? The cats are in the alley, behind the coach house so I’d need shoes to avoid glass shards and bird poop and all the other unpleasant things that lay like landmines in alleys. I slide my size ten and a half foot into my roommates size 12 loafers. It feels like being a 7 year old again, sliding my feet into my dad’s massive shoes.
As I clop to my back patio, her underwear in hand and cigarette in mouth, I begin to have second thoughts, was Lindsay Griffin, was she deserving of such an action. I mean, she had never necessarily harmed me, and it was only her reputation that I deemed worthy of punishment. I thought about that word, punishment. I thought of judges in courts, and of strict parents, and then I my thoughts were of myself, and how flawed I was. How many transgression was deserving of punishment for, and I had this moment were I felt like I held a gavel in my hands. The judicial system is supremely flawed, human nature is flawed, hell the only things that aren't fallible is 'God' and Science. That’s why Newton and Jesus can’t be in the same room.
I light my cigarette off the stove and head outside. The air greets my naked chest and it carries with it a chill, but I use my drunken grit to bear the cold and I walk past the coach house were the 3 female med students live. I walk through the black, cast iron gate and into the alley. The cats feasts, it’s a melee with these strays. All of them purring and hissing and clawing at each other, it must have been how ancient Egypt was, orgies of stray felines in the streets. You’d think that 3 big brained med students would understand the health risks of feeding 10 stray cats, all the fleas and feces. I hate cat people, cat people talk about like a drunks talks about wine, obsessively. I made my way to the feeding ground, the cats slow their feast and observe me, they aren't skittish and they let me get close. I began to stoke ones fur, a fat gold-ish colored one. His fur is stiff and mated down with dirt, he’s a hobo pussy. I waste no time and begin the the dirty deed. I sort of do a floss maneuver with the panties, back and forth across the cats fur. Like I’m shining the chrome spokes on a Harley, I rub the clothe all over the stupid cat. I pick the cat up and he sort of squirms but who knows how longs its been since someone petted him, so he allows me to pick up and I start rubbing the panties on his underbelly, praying he doesn't take this malice action for a come on, the last thing I need is to be at the center of a kitty cat gang bang.
Down the alley, unbeknownst to me at the time was Manuel. Manuel lived in the neighborhood, he was a scavenger of sorts, he made daily runs through the alley carrying a wheel barrel. He scoured trash cans for valuables; microwaves and lamps, all forms of discarded household items. Sometimes he would clean them and sell them to consignment shops, other times, in cases of TVs and computer towers, he would dissect them and sell them piece by piece. He told me once that the mafia used to kidnap people and cut one finger off everyday the ransom wasn't paid, and coincidentally the ransom price would go higher with every finger missing, he told me that he liked to apply that principle to selling computer parts. It was a starling analogy and after he told me I bid him good day and briskly walked back to my apartment.
Manuel must have been watching me for quite some time because when I noticed him he was already looking at me with an upturned and confused face. There wasn't anything to but to act cordial, so I waved with my hand still holding the cat. Manuel nodded at me and went back to searching for discarded treasure After I thought the panties were sufficiently coated in cat dander, I toss the feline down and he looks at me with a hiss and I blow cigarette smoke in his face and begin to stand up and turn around, the at gold cat hops on my back, claws bared and tears my skin.
“Ahhhh…Christ.” I scream as I stumble away. Manuel looks at me with dismay, he eye contact seems to me like his peace of mind could be benefitted with words.
“Find any copper?” Apparently copper it was now more valuable than gold.
“Si guey, I found a radiator two days ago.” 'Guey' is Spanish slang for dude.
“Bueno.” I say before heading back to apartment.
“Those yours guey?” Manuel asks nodded to toward the panties.
“Uhhh…no. They’re…uhhhh.”
Manuel screws his face up and says; “It’s okay like they are yours guey, You know I used to have an uncle who wore the ladies underwear too.”
“Thank you for understanding guey.” I say, feigning shame.
“But why were you just rubbing them on cats guey?”
“I’m a strange man.”
“Listen guey, we all strange do things, no one is in any position to judge anyone else.” Mauel says to me and its serendipitous and valuable and dignified.
“That’s why I haven’t gone to my court date yet.” Manuel says, and the proverbial glass of his genius shatters.
Back in the apartment, I see Brian, my roommate looking in the fridge. His face is pale, even for an Irish person in the morning, and his eyes as red as tomatoes. He looks like he survived a war. He grumbles at me in acknowledgement, his cognitive skills have been dulled from last night so it’s not until I've nearly made it out of the kitchen that he asks me why I had just come from outside in my underwear. I turn around and walk back toward the fridge. I stop and inch away from him and swat at him with the panties, I sing a few seconds of the chorus of Bobby Brown’s ‘My Prerogative.’ and then make my exit.
I walk in to my bedroom and Lindsay is laying on her back typing on her phone. I make sure to drop the panties discreetly on the floor before she notices. I take a seat at the foot of the futon like a dog, I stretch my legs out a lean against the railing.
“So, tell me what happened last night, like, how’d we find our selves in this position.”
“Hmmm,’ She smiles and sits up, using the my blanket to cover her chest “ I came here around 10:30 with Brooke and Bridget and you were already beyond drunk. It was a little scary actually, you've got an intense look in your eye when you’re drunk. Its Scary dude.”
“Yeah well not scary enough to chase you outta my bed.” I say. Feeling self satisfied.
“Well, you’re only sort of right. That look you were making, was far from attractive, and the worst part is’ She pauses to explode with laughter. She has a heavy laugh that rolls her shoulders up and down. She must of felt bad for laughing so hard because she paused to peek at me to study my face. “I think that was actually your 'get it' face.” She covers her eyes and laughs away.
“My ‘get it’ face?”
“Yeah, like your, ‘come and get it’ face.” She shakes her neck seductively.
“Oh God.” I shake my head.
“You were trying to seduce me looking like a complete lunatic.” She proceeds mimic my face, she pouts her lips out and swaggers her neck and head a bit. It is awful to watch.
“Jesus, ok alright. I get it, you can stop.”
“Hahaha, yeah it was terrible. And the worst part is you tried to pick me up in front of this big group of people. You males are so pitiful, always trying to measure each other dicks. Always trying to be Mr. Big Shot. Treating women like trophies and shit. News flash you asshole, women aren't UFC belts. Oh and how gay is the UFC?”
She must have seen the box for the new UFC video game I’d bought. I came across the realization that the UFC was semi-homoerotic when I spent 15 minutes trying to find the right hair/beard combo for my shirtless, oiled avatar.
“Ok, so I’m a chauvinistic asshole who may or may not be gay. I’ll buy all of that.” I crawl over next to her and tuck myself under the covers. “But that doesn't explain why we did the nasty.”
“Heh, it wasn't that nasty. It was almost sweet.” She says nestling herself under my arm. ‘Almost sweet’? I play the words over in my head. Had I been ‘almost sweet’ with this concubine of the sea?
“Well yeah, but if my ‘Get it’ face didn't….get ya, what did?” I ask her.
“Heh, do you really wanna know?”
“I’m askin’ ain’t I?”
“Well I went to the bathroom for a piss…”
“Classy.” I interject.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you how classy it got, I’m in the bathroom taking a piss and I hear some sniffling coming from behind the shower curtain. I’m thinking it about to be like a cat, or some drunk bitch on the phone with her boyfriend. Turns out it was a drunk bitch, you.”
“Oh God.” I feel myself imploding from embarrassment. Mortified by the fact I was seen drunk crying in a bathtub. The egg on my face was thick enough to scramble.
“Ha, yeah. You big bitch. And when I asked you what the hell you were crying for you crawl out of the tub, and start hugging me. While my vag is out, while I’m peeing. And you know how hot vodka pee is, you were down there, breathing it in. Crying. It was pitiful.”
“I’m going to fucking hang myself.” I balk.
“Awww, poor baby.” Lindsay kisses me on the cheek.
“And that’s what got you in my bed.”
“Hell no boy. That shit was pitiful. But after a few minutes of crying on my lap as I tweeted about it you looked up at me and said ‘I’m just misunderstood, like you are.’ And in the last 3 years I've known you, I've heard you say a lot of bullshit. But that sentence, it was the most sincere thing I think you've said since you were a little kid.”
I look at her for a minute, her purple painted nails plucking away at her phone. Her skin is dry but still smooth. Her hair, dyed blonde, straightened, and primarily synthetic, is messy but in its catastrophe there is an authentic wonderfulness. Which is what Lindsay is in as a whole, un-apologetically authentic. She is a human for the first time in my eyes. And I begin to pity myself for how shallow I am. I feel very small and shamed and despicable. Se shows me on her phone her tweets from the previous night. They read, in sequence;
Omfg, is this nigga crying in the tub. What the ever loving fuck is going on.
And I’m taking a piss ya’ll #whyme
Wiped his snot on his sleeve. Remind me never to touch him.
He just got up out the tub and is now curled up around my legs like a dog. Should I be alarmed.
My life right now. (Attached to this post was a picture of me buried between her bare thighs.)
You know what? At least I’m getting something honest from someone for once. He may be a drunk with a dimly lit future, but this is a real moment we are having.
Would it be slutty to kiss him? #toolate.
“It was crazy.” Lindsay sighs.
“I see.”
I felt a sinking guilt for all my assumptions and indiscretions. Like a sock turned inside out, all the broken toe nails fell out and I was absolved of all the hate I had for this girl. Women carry with them and in them a silent and magnanimous weight. They combat society expectations, and us men, in our fraternity of idiocy, ever hating and raging against and defiling their divinity. I heavy hatred filled my heart of everything that was the common 'man' The male brain seemed subversive and sordid.
“ What ever happened to you and Elliot?” I said, trying to shake my own miserableness.
“Random.”
“You don’t have to answer.” I say.
“He was too much, entirely too soon. Ya know?”
“Yeah.” And I did know the sentiment. It had happened to me many times, girls passionate and rapacious with their hugs and kisses that seemed like a straggle hold or a rigid decade long cell phone contract. Clinginess is to romance, has lions are to blind gazelles.
“And after awhile I started to hate his face. His beard, the way he ironed his pants. I hated all the shit I started to date him for. It was just, ickkk. I don’t know. I sound like a bitch don't I?”
“That isn't necessarily and bad thing. It sucks that women can't air grievances without being looked at negatively.”
“'Air grievances.' What a dorky thing to say.”
“Pitfalls of being a writer.” I say, feeling a little foolish. In my dealings with woman I am often cautious of my vocabulary.
“ I'm not going to catch anything am I?” Lindsay says looking at me with squinted eyes and her mouth open. Her lips are full and pink, her skin is still made up from last night. I look at my pillowcase and see that it has brown smudges on it. Make up stains on pillow cases are like Sasquatch footprints in the forest. Evidence of something mystical.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Yeah but I asked you first?” She says after she punches my arm and gives a faint smile.
“Well, no.” I say, as is customary in with generation. A kindly denial if ignorant, a text message after if lying.
“Good. You won’t either.”
We sit in bed for a while longer, talking. The morning drifts into afternoon and when our hangovers crescendo and fade we decide to get lunch. We put on clothes, dawn our sun glasses and walk to Vietnamese restaurant and the intersection of Claremont and North, a half block away from apartment. When we get there she stops at the door, waiting for me to open it. It makes us both feel good.
We get to the restaurant and we ask the cashier at the counter for a large order of the Vietnamese chicken I had recommend while back in my house. We sit and wait for our food. Lauren began to cough, and in these coughs you could hear the saliva collecting in her throat, the body’s natural defenses against bacteria. This cough persists for a few minutes and I believe it to be the chilly October air but then her face, that copper face begins to redden and puff. By the time our food gets to the table Lauren is tomato crimson and is sweating.
“Are you okay?” Our waitress asks, looking worried.
“I don’t know.” Lauren gurgles.
“Shit.” I say, remembering that three hours earlier I had marinated her undergarments in cat cooties. We are given the choice to own up to the many actions we do in this life that can with an easier stroke, fade into anonymity. As we poke our heads through the birth canal of adulthood, we see the light and its blinding and we desire to retreat back into the gooey womb of childhood. But in this age, with this beard on my chin and these loans and debts that menaces and follows me like an 18-wheeler on a desolate rode at night, I knew I had to be a man. I grab Lindsay's hand.
“Lindsay, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” She says, it seems that with each passing millisecond she puffs more, and becomes redder, as if she is ripening.
“I rubbed a cat on your underwear.”
“You did what?!?!” She began to hack, ironically, like a cat with a hairball.
“Yeah, I thought you were a witch. I don’t know. It was a shitty prank. I was drunk.”
“You fucking idiot. I’m going to kill you.” Lauren gurgles while lunging for my neck with her hands out . Out of fear, I swat her away, with maybe to much force as she falls to the floor of the restaurant. The waitress along with a couple by the window look on in reserved horror.
