Sometimes all I want is him in my mouth. And so I sit at the bar and look at him like I've got something really important to say. Something he needs to hear. Only him. And he'll lean over the mahogany that separates us, which has my drink on it, and he puts his face next to mine and his calm finds me. In the din of the crowd, his quiet heat. And he'll say, "What?" And I won't say anything. And I'll smile. And I'll look him in the eye, then away.

And later, when I'm on my knees and putting my lips around him in the small bathroom that smells like cinnamon air freshener, I do the same. Look him in the eye. Then away. His pants around his ankles and his thickness on my tongue, and his belt buckle clink, clinking on the cold tile floor. A bar towel still flung over one shoulder. His hand, strong at the back of my neck, the other against the door that opens inward and doesn't lock. And if somebody tries to come in, the door might open a bit, but then he pushes it firmly shut.

And when he comes, he comes hard. And his breath, his abdomen pushing against my forehead, and the short, choked sounds he exhales, which echo in the tight room. For a few moments before, he struggles against me and starts to pull away, but I grab his ass with one hand and pull him toward me. And my other wrapped firmly around him, pulling in time with my mouth. And I have to use all my strength to keep him there. And finally, he gives up. And finally, he gives in. To me. Into me. And his fingers tighten in my hair, and clinch. And his legs go weak. And I control all of this. I cause it to happen and the happening of it is real. And the happening of it is good.

I get wet over this. The power I feel. The control. Wet knowing I can do this thing to him and at that moment all he can do is sink into me. And at that moment there is nobody else for him, even if there is. And he needs me for this. He needs me to yield to and to take him down. And even if he complains, it's what he wants. And it's what I want, too: to molest him.

I told Mike about this thing I do to my bartender. I described it in detail because I wanted to see how he would react. I wanted to see if he would squirm.

He did not.

Whatever kind of guy Mike is, he is not the kind of guy who shows discomfort.

I love this about him.

Also, I want to change it.

Sometimes when you tell a guy something like this, something like having sex with another guy, something like sucking a guy off in a bar bathroom, he thinks you're coming on to him. He thinks it's some kind of fucking foreplay. I hate that.

Mike just listened when I described it to him. He sat in my living room, in the big leather chair. His legs crossed. He smiled. He stroked his beard. If he got hard, he didn't let on.

And when he left, I had to masturbate. I didn't use the Butterfly Kiss, though. The piece of shit is already broken.

----------

My mom doesn't know who I am anymore. I mean, she does, but not really. She's not herself, either. She forgets where she is. She can't understand what is happening to her. Last time I went to see her, she asked where she was. I told her she was in an assisted-living home. She asked who had brought her here. I said I had. She said, "Well, you selfish bitch."

I laughed. Because the words were not her words. They were not the words she would have spoken. And the irony was funny.

In many ways, she is not the woman I've known.

Still, other things she does are completely her. The way she laughs. The way she makes conversation. Most of the time she has a sense of humor. And she talks to the people who bring her her pills. She says, "I take all of these?" And she holds them in the palm of her hand and looks up at the nurse. And the nurse will nod. And so she will shrug and take them and chase them with water. And then she thanks the nurse. Because that's her: kind.

But other times she's confused and scared and she doesn't talk and she turns inward. And the TV is on in the dim room, but it's like it isn't. Because when I ask her what she's watching, she doesn't know. And this is when things are bad.

I've learned I don't need to be there all the time. It was hard at first. To not be there. But you begin to see that being there isn't necessarily the best thing. For you. Or for her.

For anybody.

Either that, or I am: a selfish bitch.

----------

Here's the plan. I'm going to make Mike want me. And then I'm going to make him hate me. I'm going to make him think I'm a bitch. I need to see if he has it in him. I need to see if he can be my murderer.

It's been raining. And the ground is soggy. And even though it's still cool, sometimes I go outside and walk barefoot in the puddles of the gravel driveway that Mike and I share. On these mornings, I walk proudly and make large circular footsteps in the water, soft ripples that radiate outward and end where the puddles do. And I feel the rocks dig into my feet and I don't wince. And the reflections I cast in the water are the reflections I make. And I don't stop to worry over wet feet or pause to wonder about the times I was dry. I do it like I've always done it, until the puddles disappear into the ground.

And until I walk on top of the earth again.

Category: Fallout