Fill The Gaps

Fill The Gaps

I had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  Something cold, something hot. My hair was shiny from oil.  I hadn’t showered in days, so I had thrown on a beanie.  It looked good.  I wore a tight top and looked better than every girl at the party.  I had always known I looked good.  I sat on a couch, and a man sat to my right and another man sat to my left.  Their hands were on my legs and sometimes elsewhere, and it felt good.

I smoked rings into the air.  The holes pierced my view, looking like this: O o 0

It turned everyone in the room on.  We all smoked. We all drank.  We all touched.  We all liked the holes in the room.  We liked the gaps.

I felt my skin tingle.  My heart skipped.  He was here.  I stood up. I felt hands slip off of my thighs and ass in a slow, stubborn way that told me I would be missed on that couch.  It felt good to get up and leave and have them notice, even if it was just because they liked touching my body. It felt good to know that when I was gone, they knew I was gone.  They felt the gaps.

When I walked into the kitchen, he walked in on the other side through another set of swinging doors.  I took a few steps forward, trying to remember how good-looking I was. I sucked on my cigarette, remembering how cool I was and how much I was missed in the living room with the rose-patterned couch. He walked towards me with the kind of confidence men only walk with on TV.  His hands met my waist, and he picked me up and set my ass on the countertop. He kissed my lips, and gave my bottom lip a little more attention with his teeth.  I felt his lips tighten and curve into a pleased smile. He leaned back a little and stared into my eyes.  He took the cigarette from my fingers and put it to his lips and inhaled.  My cigarette. His cigarette.  My inhale. His exhale.

I could hear the sizzle of the cigarette.  I could hear the wetness of his lips.  I think I heard him blink with those long eyelashes of his too, but that might have been something outside the house.  My senses made no sense when he was in front of me: I felt the color of his hair and the way it shone, I tasted the roughness of his skin and all of his scars, I saw the warmth of his blood and how it ran through his veins.

I wrapped my fingers around the top of his tank top, pulling and stretching it out towards me.  His hands combed over mine and then covered them, and he pulled me in with equal force.  I dug my fingers into his shoulders until I was sure there would be evidence of this very moment on his body the next day.  His lips dropped to my neck where he chose to mark me with purple lip prints of his own.

He brought his hand to my face.  I let his fingers stretch out over my lips, nose, eyes, and forehead. I closed my eyes to focus on how large his hand was. Then his fingers wrapped around my chin and tilted my head up, forcing me to look straight into his golden eyes.  His look was stern, just like his touch. . . but my lips were soft.  And they found his fingers. And my fingers found his hair, and my fingers pulled his hair.

And then he put his hands around my waist and lifted me off the counter.  He placed me back on the floor.  My eyes grew large, panicked even.  I caught myself, however, and lowered my lids.  I straightened my beanie.  He smiled.  And then he turned around and walked away.  He pushed through the double action doors and exited.  The saloon doors swung forwards and backwards a couple times, letting me look after him and see the little snippets of the dining room.  He stood in the next room with his tank top and a woman to his left and a woman to his right.  The women hung on each of his shoulder’s like jewels of armor, protecting both sides of his chest.  I licked my lips and swallowed nothing.  I turned around and pushed my way past the other set of doors back to my couch.

I sat down and immediately felt the sea of hands float back onto the surface of my body, searching for gaps to fill.  I lifted my hand to my mouth to take a hit, but realized I didn’t have my cigarette anymore.  For a second, my heart fell quick into a deep, dark hole where nothing was too small or large for it.  I felt empty, the way I always feel when I want to smoke but can’t.  A hand jumped off my body and returned after a second with a fresh cigarette.  I watched a hand with a lighter light the cigarette in front of my face.  I opened my mouth, the hand brought the cigarette to my lips, I inhaled, feeding my lungs with the poison I needed to live.

I smoked rings into the air.  The holes pierced my view, looking like this: O o 0

Daddy, can you tell me a story?

Daddy, can you tell me a story?

A Stranger Touch

A Stranger Touch