Dead Photos and Last Drinks
http://www.loserturdmafia.com
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Warning: The following post contains graphic content and might cause offence to some.
I sauntered into the bar.
Pictured myself walking in and ordering the first drink.
Sauntered. The way I cooked myself in this dress. Saute. Is that how they say it? Is that how it’s done. Zipped and fragile, berries in sauce, pouting lips.
Walking sex.
I ordered my first drink, making sure that it would be my last, making it last as long as my glance around the den – legs in satin and tweed, affordable consumption, not the sort that is desperate and scraping at the bottom of a purse. Everyone here wanted to be here - unlike the way alcoholics needs to be where the smoke and incense-breath scents décolletage like rot, unlike the way a junkie needs to be dead and discarded.
The drink was empty and only then did my eyes stumble on the women standing next to me, breast heavy against the bar, fingers tracing words in spilt beer.
The last of drinks turn to amber, preserving the last moment, catching light and holding it hostage – it’s always the moment I find the One.
When it happens…and it always does…it feels like ice and paper cut on the tip of your tongue. The pain and its remedy.
Sometimes injuries have a taste.
Not of blood.
Not of the human.
It tastes like coincidence.
Coinkydink.
Childhood words spring like jack-in-the-box.
I take her back to my place, the only place I have. The room where I get left behind when I walk out the door. The one with the photos
“OhMyGod. These are photos of dead things”
“It’s Ok. I was abused by my father.”
She looks scared. Before I was her, the way we all are. The way we feel comfortable in a room together.
Alone. Together.
Slumber parties and conference calls with boys. Mutual makeup application. This is the shared consciousness of our kind.
But I move too quickly.
“Well. Actually. He didn’t abuse me. I abused him.”
She looks again at the photos. Pale things without colour.
For some things colour film is an unnecessary luxury.
Polaroid coffins, bordered in white. Developed out of nothing.
“I used to tease him. Leave him post-it notes telling him to meet me in different rooms of our house…”
She leaned back into the sofa, skin folding over. A luscious layer of fat making more of her.
“He used to meet me, looking over his shoulders, looking out for my mother. He didn’t want to. I knew that. But he couldn’t help it. Some part of him couldn’t help it. I had just started to get these…”
I took my breasts out of the sheen of sweat and fabric that had kept them close to my heart.
I wanted them away from me.
I wanted her to take them.
I walked to the other side of the room instead, letting my fingers walk along the edge of that pale, trembling eclipse, on my left, close to my heart.
Tapping a beat that was getting faster.
The sound of stilettos when you know you’re being followed.
She couldn’t stop looking.
“I did nothing. I would lay there and take things off. He would say nothing. Only breath. Or not breath. Looking over his shoulder. Listening for the door… come here.”
She answered simply and on all fours, punctuating her reply with a look or a giggle.
When she ended her sentence and she was kneeling in front of me I took a fist full of her hair and felt the tiny pull of her gasp somewhere near the base of my brain.
I could no longer see her face, but I could feel it, revolving inside me, extending itself, talking in a language sweet and sickly.
Her dress was hiked up around her waist and I could see a phalanx of knuckles. Roman warriors marching against the barbarians.
She pulsated with me.
Panting super nova.
Sending out waves in concentric circles.
She finally looked up at me, high tide lines around her lips, gulping something heavier than air.
She was smiling upside down.
Unable to say a thing with her mouth still full.
Saltwater and perfume memories travelling through her sinuses.
I lent down gently, her hair still in my hand, until I could feel my own breath coming off her face and let a long translucent sliver of saliva fall from my mouth into hers.
Her swallowing filled the room.
Why did you do that?
Because… you made me come
I sauntered into the bar.
Pictured myself walking in and ordering the first drink.
Sauntered. The way I cooked myself in this dress. Saute. Is that how they say it? Is that how it’s done. Zipped and fragile, berries in sauce, pouting lips.
Walking sex.
I ordered my first drink, making sure that it would be my last, making it last as long as my glance around the den – legs in satin and tweed, affordable consumption, not the sort that is desperate and scraping at the bottom of a purse. Everyone here wanted to be here - unlike the way alcoholics needs to be where the smoke and incense-breath scents décolletage like rot, unlike the way a junkie needs to be dead and discarded.
The drink was empty and only then did my eyes stumble on the women standing next to me, breast heavy against the bar, fingers tracing words in spilt beer.
The last of drinks turn to amber, preserving the last moment, catching light and holding it hostage – it’s always the moment I find the One.
When it happens…and it always does…it feels like ice and paper cut on the tip of your tongue. The pain and its remedy.
Sometimes injuries have a taste.
Not of blood.
Not of the human.
It tastes like coincidence.
Coinkydink.
Childhood words spring like jack-in-the-box.
I take her back to my place, the only place I have. The room where I get left behind when I walk out the door. The one with the photos
“OhMyGod. These are photos of dead things”
“It’s Ok. I was abused by my father.”
She looks scared. Before I was her, the way we all are. The way we feel comfortable in a room together.
Alone. Together.
Slumber parties and conference calls with boys. Mutual makeup application. This is the shared consciousness of our kind.
But I move too quickly.
“Well. Actually. He didn’t abuse me. I abused him.”
She looks again at the photos. Pale things without colour.
For some things colour film is an unnecessary luxury.
Polaroid coffins, bordered in white. Developed out of nothing.
“I used to tease him. Leave him post-it notes telling him to meet me in different rooms of our house…”
She leaned back into the sofa, skin folding over. A luscious layer of fat making more of her.
“He used to meet me, looking over his shoulders, looking out for my mother. He didn’t want to. I knew that. But he couldn’t help it. Some part of him couldn’t help it. I had just started to get these…”
I took my breasts out of the sheen of sweat and fabric that had kept them close to my heart.
I wanted them away from me.
I wanted her to take them.
I walked to the other side of the room instead, letting my fingers walk along the edge of that pale, trembling eclipse, on my left, close to my heart.
Tapping a beat that was getting faster.
The sound of stilettos when you know you’re being followed.
She couldn’t stop looking.
“I did nothing. I would lay there and take things off. He would say nothing. Only breath. Or not breath. Looking over his shoulder. Listening for the door… come here.”
She answered simply and on all fours, punctuating her reply with a look or a giggle.
When she ended her sentence and she was kneeling in front of me I took a fist full of her hair and felt the tiny pull of her gasp somewhere near the base of my brain.
I could no longer see her face, but I could feel it, revolving inside me, extending itself, talking in a language sweet and sickly.
Her dress was hiked up around her waist and I could see a phalanx of knuckles. Roman warriors marching against the barbarians.
She pulsated with me.
Panting super nova.
Sending out waves in concentric circles.
She finally looked up at me, high tide lines around her lips, gulping something heavier than air.
She was smiling upside down.
Unable to say a thing with her mouth still full.
Saltwater and perfume memories travelling through her sinuses.
I lent down gently, her hair still in my hand, until I could feel my own breath coming off her face and let a long translucent sliver of saliva fall from my mouth into hers.
Her swallowing filled the room.
Why did you do that?
Because… you made me come
(joking. joking)