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Breaking In A New Year by Ray Printer Friendly

I wrote a post last night about how I was working on a project called My Imaginary Life. That was mostly to prepare you for the following story.

Mostly to prepare any family members who read the following story. Although, if you're a family member, you probably shouldn't be reading this at all, preparation or not.

It's got explicit sex in it. In fact, almost the entire thing is explicit sex, when it isn't barely-coherent rambling. Still, I feel like it's a pretty good story. Can't make any promises about the writing quality, but I like the story itself.

Anyway, enough of this.

_______________


Breaking In A New Year


Is it midnight yet? I don't even know. Fucking weed and coke and more kinds of alcohol than I can count. Is it the new year yet? At this point, I can barely remember what year it is we're supposed to be looking forward to.

"So it was your birthday?" she asks.

I look over at her. She's pretty, just like she always is, but nothing super hot. When she talks, though, she makes sure every sound is included in the word, there's no missing g's at the end of her action verbs or blurred t's. She doesn't sound sophisticated, exactly, but she sounds like she appreciates words and letters for what they are, and that makes me hot like you wouldn't believe.

"It was my birthday a few weeks ago," I tell her.

"I didn't get you anything."

I shrug and give her my best charming half-smile, the one I've made reflex so I don't get wasted and smile one of those big, goofy, wasted smiles. "I won't hold it against you, since you didn't even know me then."

"You won't hold it against me? Even if I beg?" And her hand, the one that's been holding the joint, it's moving up my inner thigh towards my crotch. Where did the joint go, I wonder.

I realize it's in my hand, and I take a hit. It's skunk weed, and this is the last of it. Living in a small town, it's not always easy to find drugs, but this party was pretty set. We ran out at one point, though, and ended up making a trip into town. Picked up more people, more booze, more dope.

That's when she ditched all her friends. They kept telling her to be on her best behavior, kept telling her to be good. Some trailer house, I don't know who lived there, we were checking for weed, her friends were sitting on the couch, drinking wine coolers and smoking cigarettes, and she told them I was gonna take her to the gas station for a Coke real quick. Out in the yard, she told the other two guys who came with us that it was time to head back. Them and the people they were talking to.

Piled into the van, loud music blaring, she pulls out the baggie of pills she swiped from the trailer, along with the shitty weed we paid entirely too much for. I'm in the passenger seat, and she climbs between me and the driver, hands him a few pills. Straddles me, dumps a handful of pills into my mouth and puts her beer bottle against my lips, I swallow as quick as I can, but the beer still dribbles out of the corners of my mouth, down my jaw line, to my ear as I lean back.

She licks the alcohol from my neck up to my ear, and then over to the corner of my mouth. I break the tongue kiss off just as it begins, with a laugh and a joke, and I light a cigarette.

She takes it from me with a smile, and just before she climbs off of me and back into the middle of the van, she forces her crotch down on mine, giving my dick a jolt of pleasure and a bit of pain.

The driver looks over at me, his eyebrows raised.

I shake my head, nothin' to see here, folks.

That was...when? Earlier. Is it midnight yet? Did it come and go?

The TV's on, some hockey game, I don't know if it's going on or if this is a highlight reel or what. The sound is muted, and there's music playing somewhere in the back of the house. I don't know what it is. Soft and soothing and lonely. I almost recognize it, but then it's lost. She's taking the joint out of my hand, sliding her leg over me, one knee on either side of my hips, and I can immediately feel the heat of her crotch against mine. She takes a hit off the joint, and reaches around with her other hand to grab the back of my head. She pulls my face forward, our lips lock, and she blows smoke into my lungs, I breathe in, breathe her in along with the smoke, our tongues dance and she rides me.

I take hold of her hips, stop the motion, this is too far already. It's too far, right? Too far.

I think back, to when? To earlier. Before the trailer house, before the run to town, and before this. Before we were left alone in the house, except for the blonde girl who has been passed out by the toilet for most of the night.

The blonde, I knew her from somewhere, but couldn't figure out where. Some nearby town, Pampa, Miami, maybe Wheeler. Somewhere.

She got trashed early, drank a big-ass bottle of Hot Damn. Cinnamon schnapps. Ended up on the kitchen counter, dancing around without a shirt on, lifting up her bra when someone said the magic word, which was, for some reason, "aerosol."

She picked her own magic word, and told it to everyone as she danced dangerously close to the edge of the counter, schnapps bottle in hand. Laughing and laughing and laughing, and then she leaned over and puked in the sink.

All the guys who had been standing around, cheering her on, chanting her magic word, they flinched back and groaned things like, "daaaaaamn."

One guy ran out the sliding glass door to the back yard and puked all over his shirt before he could drop to his knees.

I watched all this from the laundry room. I was sitting on the dryer, smoking cigarettes and drinking a bottle of Jack and thinking about dying, because that's what I did with most of my time.

Not dying in an eventual, abstract way. I was thinking about it as a very real option for the end of the night. I was at a party in the middle of the country, I didn't know hardly any of the people, I was almost through a bottle of Jack and a quarter-ounce of weed, and there was talk of cocaine coming in from somewhere.

Driving home was going to be something else.

The coke, it was only for friends of the host, and I barely knew her. When she came out to help the blonde girl off the counter, I dropped from the dryer and stepped out into the kitchen to help. We steered her into the guest bathroom, and she barely made it to the toilet before she puked again. It smelled like fried chicken and Big Red gum.

I held her hair away from her face, and the host, this girl I barely knew, she said, "You're a good person." I thought about cocaine and I thought about the drive home, and I thought about dying. And I guess I thought about the rumors, for just a second. I go, "I do what I can," and there was no way she could have known what I was talking about.

But that's not the part I'm thinking about as she drops the remainder of the joint into an ashtray and strips off her shirt and shoves my face into her tits. She smells so good, her nipples taste like dreams of candy, not sweet, really, but the memory of sweet. They harden under my tongue, and I can feel each and every bump and dip.

My hand slides under the waistband of her sweat pants, and then under the elastic of her panties, and I find wetness waiting. I feel like my elbow might snap in half at any moment, my arm's turned all funny to reach what I need to reach as I suck her nipples.

She moans. I think of clouds, silky and moist and wonderful, and I think of the wind as she whispers nonsense into my ear, broken words, but still with that special way she talks, including every letter, every sound. Another moan, another one, and then one of those moans. She spasms, her legs shake on either side of my hips, and her hands squeeze my arms.

She falls panting against me, her breath hot against my neck, and I have mixed feelings. Mostly, I'm glad that this is it, this is where it stops. She got her fix, she'll probably pass out, and I'll wait for my buddy to get back and haul my ass to whatever's next.

She nuzzles against me, against a neck too young to grow stubborn-stiff beard hair to ruin the feeling of flesh on flesh.

"Oh," she murmurs. "Oh my god, I didn't even know that could happen. How did you do that?"

I don't take praise well, I never have been able to. I don't flash my charming half-smile. I light a cigarette. But inside, I'm smiling. A smug, self-satisfied smile, because I pride myself on making girls cum. On the outside, I am not smiling, I'm just watching the hockey game that I don't understand, and smoking my cigarette. Compared to the weed, it tastes dirty and smells like shit.

Her nipples are still hard against me, I can feel them poking me through the fabric of my shirt, and I force myself not to think about them, about the ephemeral sweet taste and the ephemeral deadly promise they hold.

She takes the cigarette out of my hand, and she takes a deep, contented drag, and then hands it back.

"So does America even play hockey?" I ask.

Instead of answering she slides down, off of my lap, onto the floor in front of me. She unsnaps the top button of my pants, paws for a zipper, and then realizes that it's all buttons.

Pop pop pop pop go my buttons as she opens my fly, and then her fingers are searching through the fabric of my boxer shorts, finding that last button.

I smoke my cigarette and I watch hockey, and I try not to think about it. About her fingertip smearing pre-cum all over the head of my cock, about the warm wetness as she takes me into her mouth. About my friend, the driver of the van, shortly before he left.

I think back, to when? To earlier. After the trailer house, after the run to town, after the blonde girl passed out by the toilet. Before we were left alone in the house, except for the blonde girl who has been passed out by the toilet for most of the night.

My friend, the driver of the van, pulling me aside.

"Hey, man," he said, "You know I'm not here to judge. You do what you need to do."

"Dude," I tell him. "Don't worry."

"One of us has to."

"Nope. It's not gonna happen."

"I have jimmies in the van."

"I'm not gonna fuck her, dude. Don't worry."

"I've seen you two tonight, I've seen you tonight."

"It's fine."

"It doesn't look like fine."

I give him my smile, my charming half-smile, and I say, "We'll make out, I'll finger-fuck her into another world. Maybe get a hand job out of it."

"Be careful, man." He's been telling me all night to be careful. Just like her friends told her to be careful, before she dumped them at the trailer house in town. I don't want to ditch him, though, I just want him to understand that it's all under control.

"I'm not gonna fuck her, dude."

"I have-"

"Save your rubbers for water balloons, they'll get more use."

"Look." Is it irony when he tells me to look, but can't look at me? "I don't spread rumors and gossip-"

"I've heard it already, dude. I've heard the stories. Settle down--it's not gonna happen."

"In case it does, though."

"It won't."

"You're sure?"

"You know my luck--I'll probably just end up going home and jerking off anyway."

"I'm gonna run these people back into town, I'll be back in thirty minutes to get you."

"Drive safe."

"I don't think I'm the one who needs to worry about being safe right now."

That was before, though, before the soft music from wherever and the muted hockey game and the nipples in my face or the mouth around my cock.

It feels good. I've been this fucked up before, I shouldn't be able to feel anything more than a slight friction as she moves her head up and down. But this chick, she's no slouch. Whatever it is she's doing, it's working, and I know that alone should throw up red flags all over the place, but what the hell, right?

It's almost the new year, you can tell by the way they interrupt the hockey game or highlights or whatever. They're not counting down yet, but you can tell they're about to.

I drop my cigarette into the ashtray beside me, because my fingers have gone numb. This girl has serious talent.

Which is an understatement, really, but I don't find that out for another four or five seconds.

She's doing her thing down there, and I realize her hands are working pretty good, not on my parts, but on hers. Fucking. Hot.

And then.

And then.

So fast, man, so fucking fast. She's up, and her pants--the faded gray sweat pants she changed into once everyone left and it was supposed to be just us, sitting around smoking the last of the weed and watching the ball drop--they stay right where they were at.

I feel a new kind of warmth, a new tension around my dick. Not a hand. Not a mouth.

"Ahh," she whispers into my ear. Her mouth is right next to my ear, all the sudden. "Fuck me, baby, fuck me."

No.

No.

"No!" I tell her, and I try to push her off, but she's doing that thing again, with her arms laced around my neck, and each time I try to thrust her off of me, she meets me with her own thrusts, and another sigh or grunt or moan.

So this is it. All I can think about are the rumors, those rumors my friend isn't one to spread, the rumors we've all heard. Stupid, I'm so fucking stupid.

Small town, everyone knows everything about everyone, and what they don't know, they make up. Her dad has lived here for years, but she's been somewhere else, with her mom or grandma or something. We never went to school together, and she's only been in town for a few months. Enough time for the rumors to circulate. Enough time for her to set up a reputation.

AIDS, that's the rumor, and although it's nothing confirmed, the way her friends act around her seems to back up the theory, and some of the sources I've heard from are pretty reliable.

Even staying at her house while my friend went into town was a form of Russian roulette. Maybe a test, to see how much I really hated myself, how much I really wanted to die.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck it. I can still go out like I want, AIDS just gives me a time-table. I'm pissed, though. This bitch, she didn't ask, she didn't give me time to avoid this situation. Probably I asked for it, of course I did, getting fucked up and working her up.

But I'm still pissed.

I quit trying to throw her off, and start trying to break her in half. Her arms wrap tighter around her neck, and her moans turn to cries of pleasure. Louder with every thrust, and she's biting my shoulder, and I'm still not able to work her as hard as I want.

I grab her waist with both hands, impale her as hard as I can, as deep as I can.

"God yes!" she screams. "Harder! Fuck me harder!"

I smile a smile that's not my charming half-smile. It feels mean and cold and frightening, but she doesn't see it because her head's thrown back and she's moaning to the ceiling.

Later, I'll wonder what would have happened if she had said something else. Would I have reacted differently if she had said "ouch" or "stop it" or "no?" It's something I don't let myself think about too much.

She doesn't say any of that. She says harder, and that's something I'm willing to give her.

My arms are around her waist like hers are around my neck, and I bite her nipple as she bites my ear, and I kick the coffee table over, across the room. Magazines and ashtrays and beers, they all go flying, I don't give a shit.

I stand up and her legs wrap around me, and it's the first time I've ever held someone up to fuck them, I realize. Too drunk, too stoned, too unbalanced to continue for long. I can't ram myself into her hard enough like that, anyway.

We're on the floor, then, she's underneath me, her nails scratching down my back as she screams things like yes and god and harder, and all I can think about is how this bitch might have killed me. Fucked me to death.

I can't slam myself into her hard enough.

We're by the wall, by the window. Her hand reaches out and grasps the curtains. She cums and yanks the entire window dressing down. It crashes down on top of the various shit from the coffee table. The curtain rod knocks a vase from the tiny little decorative shelf it was on.

Shattering glass and her moans, and soft music from somewhere, and I hear a motor coming down the dirt road.

She's too busy to notice, and I don't care enough to stop.

I feel a burning on my palm and realize that I've just put the last of my burning cigarette out on the carpet. The other palm is grinding into broken glass.

"Cum, baby, I want to feel your cum!" she yells. "Cum in me!" she yells. "It's okay, I'm on the pill! I want to feel your cum in me. Fill me up!"

So I do my best.



The ball's dropped, the after-party in Times Square is over, the fire in the fireplace has burned completely out.

She's beside me, a puddle of panting, sweating flesh. My back is starting to sting where her fingernails ripped me open. My mouth is dry, and the cigarette isn't helping. I tried to flee, but as soon as I rolled off of her, she grabbed my dick and sighed, "Wait."

So I lit a cigarette, and she took it from my lips, so I lit another. Every once in a while, she'll try to flick her ash into the ashtray that we tipped over, but she misses every time.

"I've never been fucked like that," she says. "That was fucking incredible."

I don't take praise well, I never have been able to. I yank her hand off my dick, and I stand up. I grab my jeans from the floor and pull them on--not going to worry about trying to find my boxers in this mess.

My shirt, where's my shirt?

"That," she murmurs from the floor, "That was the best sex I've ever had."

I stop the search and look down at her. "Is that something you say to guys to make them feel better? Because you can save your breath."

She laughs a slurry laugh. "Those other guys can fuck off and die. That was the greatest sex I've ever had."

I don't take praise very well, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not a little glad to hear that. You fuck yourself to death, you at least want to do a good job of it, yeah?

I grab my shirt from under the couch, and my shoes, and I tell her bye, and she says thanks for the fuck, sex-god.

I laugh as I exit, but it dies as I step out the door and see my friend waiting for me.

He's sitting on the hood of his van, smoking.

There's a cooler of beer on the porch. I grab it and carry it to the van.

"Can I bum a smoke?" I ask him, as I hand him a beer. He tosses me his pack of cigarettes and cracks open his beer, but doesn't say anything.

"How's it going?" I ask.

"You tell me."

"Could be better, could be worse."

He nods. "When I first got here, I pulled up on the other end of the driveway, couldn't help but see in the window."

"Don't worry, you'll feel like a man again someday."

He ignores my joke. "Tell me you wrapped up, Ray. Please tell me you wrapped that shit."

"It's a long story," I say.

"Then just tell me the end."

I take a drag of my cigarette and I find it hard to look him in the eye. I make myself, make myself look right at him, and I say, "I won't know the end until I get tested, I guess."

"Stupid motherfucker."

"Yeah."

"I fuckin told you, man. I knew I should have brought you some rubbers in before I went to town."

"Wouldn't have done any good."

"This isn't a fucking game, Ray, do you understand that?"

I shrug. I finish my beer and my cigarette as he stares at me. Waiting for an answer I don't have.

"We all die," I tell him.

He shakes his head and curses and laughs a small laugh and tells me to get in the fuckin van, it's late and he's tired.

I piss in the driveway, climb into the van, and ride back into town.



Written for the upcoming fiction book My Imaginary Life.



Posted under Short Stories on 5/27/10


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