City of Singles

by Jason Bryan

  Misha quips with a giggle, “More late nights there, eh buddy?” She’s wiping her guilty throwing fingers on her napkin.

  “Getting you to talk used to be easy, you’d never shut up.” Misha always loved it when I would bite her neck.

  “Kiki and I haven’t seen you in ages, and you’re just zoning out!”

  The waiter is almost at the table, if I can just wait until a little liquor floats in my system before I have to talk, that would be great.

  My drink arrives, its honey coloured with two ice cubes. Eager lips lead to an oral flood. Trap door views from the roof of my mouth, the tongue is a fat red whale. Bristling with caramel-toned rum, it surfaces for air while alarms ring in the liver. Down the hatch it goes, I almost choke. Straight rum burns. Somehow by not listening, I ended up ordering a full glass of rum. They must know me here.

  “Misha, you’re fucking gorgeous, and Kiki; you’re a babe.” I emphasize ‘you’re’ and point at Kiki while saying this.

  I completely ignore talking about my lack of talking.

  “I haven’t seen you guys either, and when I did, I was stunned. You’re both looking so goddamn good.” They both smile.

  “Kiki decided against getting boobs!” Misha says before a sip of Caesar. Kiki bounces up and down in her chair, smiling and proud of herself.

  Living in a cartoon only gets easier with time, or it could be all that kush. The fabric of her tube top looks under so much stress, her breasts collide together in the middle and try to push each other out of their cups. They’re the only two sumo wrestlers I’d like to see greased up. I throw my hand in the air to signal a round of high fives, followed by a toast and another large mouthful of rum. I’m glad Kiki didn’t get her breasts enlarged even more, and that Misha never got a pair of ugly bolt-on tits. Women with grapefruit sized implants on surf board chests can look like an ugly parody of a woman, a twisted cartoon object of non-femininity. Mental visions of Misha with ruined boobs gives way to that old familiar buzz. The warm, slower talking sensation starts to wash over me. Hard to believe I was celebrating a girl not butchering her perfectly natural body.

  Raising my glass in the air, “Another toast, my dears.” The girls raise their glasses high. “To not shitting my pants today.”

  Clink.

  The conversation begins to ebb and flow over the topics of food, Kiki’s dog and how she needs a new purse. I daydream off with sunglasses on. Eyes relax as golden fall sunshine lazily drapes over my arm and face. Vanilla people bathed in yolk orange rays of light, moles in pale doughy skin as little chocolate chips. Getting a lot of sun could lead to cancer, but mostly just pretty Instagram photos. Long deep breaths purge fumes from my nose. In go several wafts of garlic, seafood and fresh breads as waiters busily pass by. Nodding occasionally to questions over who has cuter shoes, or which perfume smells better, enjoying the moment in every way possible. Misha’s leg presses against mine under the table. She is leaning it against me. I move my leg over to push onto her legs and they feel smooth, feminine, and very soft. While Kiki babbles on about herself, my eyes lock with Misha’s, we’re thinking the same thing.

  Kiki excuses herself from the table and clip-clops her way off the sun soaked patio. Misha smiles at me. She’s gripping the arm rest and squeezing it tight.

  “I didn’t think I’d end up hearing from you today.” Misha says, as she lets go of the armrest to take her drink in both hands.

  She takes a long pull from the straw and empties the glass. The silence of enjoyment is ended with the hollow sucking of dead drink.

  “Well, I’m a busy guy, Misha-I think it’s been about two weeks since we saw each other last?” I reply.

  She is sitting to my right with Kiki’s empty chair in front of me. Misha shifts her weight onto her arm rest and whispers softly into my ear:

  “Two weeks since I’ve been fucked properly.”

  She leans back into her chair, her eyes in a cocky squint. In an instant comes response from my southern brain. She is thinking what I’m thinking. My drink magnetizes itself to my hand and my mouth bathes in straight rum.

  More clip-clopping shoes herald the return of Kiki. Picturing her as a giant walking pigeon, her awkward steps are only second mate to her captain’ing breasts that lead the rest of her body.

  “Mish!” Kiki exclaims, maneuvering her prime booty into her seat. “Guess who texted me?”

  Oh the suspense.

  “Jorden Vosh!”

  Misha is in the middle of having a sip, her brow furrows and she puts down her drink with conviction.

  “Jorden called me fat! That guy is such an asshole.”

  I remember Jorden Vosh. He’s a local gay male model, one of the city’s best. He’s a total professional with looks chiseled from marble, my own molded from clay. Met that guy at a party once, his completely friendly and effeminate demeanor hides how he is so socially cold to females competing for attention. I learned what the term ‘frenemy’ meant to girls after meeting that cruel homo.

  Misha spouts off about Jorden for the next ten minutes. Kiki hops in to defend him throughout her rant, but is quickly sorted out through Misha’s quick use of her index finger. Her technique to point in people’s faces is her often overused method of saying “No, no, NO!” to stagger any verbal duelist. I always found it so fascinating that one person can suggest to a girl that she’s overweight and she will bear that cross for eternity. Maybe some women tie in their weight with their sense of self-worth. Recalling the shitty and worthless feeling when I’m broke, and it all makes sense. Lonely ice cubes rotate freely as the last of the rum slides down my throat, just in time to hear Kiki blurt out a frustrated “Oh my fucking god Misha!”

  The girls have been bitching for over ten minutes about the context of how Jorden called Misha fat. She has a very nice feminine body. Her toned upper abs could be in a jeans ad. Those tits are a bit saggy in her late 20ies, but look gorgeous watching from below when she is on top. I prefer being on her, with those soft, long tanned legs on my shoulders. Making out with her in my car is one of my most fond memories of her. My hands crept up her inner thighs, feeling like silk on my fingertips. Her jean shorts soaked, her fragrance filling the air. Kiki is intensely texting on her phone, stone faced with glass eyes.

  Kiki sighs. “Well, Jorden is not meeting us here anymore. I’m going to walk up and meet him at the Starbucks.” Kiki dumping bucket loads of disappointment in her voice.

  Misha has her legs crossed, and her elevated leg is kicking the air slowly, half obscured by the table.

  “Misha, what are you going to do?” Kiki rarely talks in her serious voice.

  It’s hard to believe a six month old comment has these two women mad at each other.

  “Mish, you should come and check out the new Wosk collection.” I casually suggest that in my most sophisticated tone.

  I think I slurred the word collection. My mind slips off to think ahead to Misha naked, and I feel my pants squeezing tight against my wedding tackle.

  “Do you have any more drinks? I kind of feel like getting fucked up today,” Misha says through a sly grin.

  My left eyebrow rockets up and I ask her if a leprechaun pimp would own anything green or gold. She chuckles while digging through her purse to pay her bill. Kiki thanks me for coming out and puts barely her share of money on the table. I’ll have to cover the tip again. No karma lost in lacking cash as long as you’re beautiful. The clothed reed-like waiter collects the money and drops off a few vanilla mint hard candies. They make this particular crinkle when you open them, forever reminding me of satisfied stomachs. I unwrap one, toss it in the air and catch it in my mouth. Lingering rum mixes with candy, a cold sweet vanilla breeze.

  Walking up the street together, Misha’s bright dress contrasts sharply against unwashed awnings and the grimey sidewalk. A bum in camo pants and a stained green sweater is pawing through trash, his greasy hair stays flat on his head as he turns and spots Misha. A yellow smile hides in a ring of matte
d fur and tangled beard. Bob the painter must have found a happy little crack pipe. Misha ignores him with a polite but not very kind smile in the opposite direction; as we pass by a waft of intense BO assaults my senses. I tend to bitch about the smells and people I’m subjected to by living in a neighborhood like this, yet the raw nature is refreshing. In a world of plastic trees, photoshop, warm lighting, and flawless skin, it’s an oasis of unadulterated humanity.

  Misha almost dances as she walks, passing by a patio and heads are showing an obvious focus on her. Around the corner and quarter block in, we arrive at my building. A beep greets me as my hand swipes the key card and the metal gate unlocks. Misha goes first, my drunk hand pats her tight little ass on the way in. Through the courtyard to the front door of the condo block, beep, and the steel doors of the elevators gleam in the otherwise dull former warehouse.

  Blood-coloured light erupts from the 5 button, and the elevator hums to life. Refurbished lofts don’t feature German engineering, the elevator rides a little smoother than square wheels down a hill during an earthquake. Swaying and shuddering, the old lift matters less as Misha lures me in with beckoning eyes. My shoulder brushes up against the side door. Two lights up on the elevator’s display screen. In the corner, Misha holds onto both railings, one long leg slides up onto the bar to her right. Barely covering her upper thighs, Misha’s bright yellow dress rides up to reveal a hint of panty. Tucking her chin down towards her chest, those big green eyes beam sensuality.

  “What about this have you missed?” She says with a pout. My eyes lock with hers.

  I straighten up my back against the wall, as much as someone who drank a glass of rum on an empty stomach can.

  “I miss watching you slide up and down me, while I watch it in the mirror.”

  Her tight little ass and how hot it was is still fresh in my mind, the way it bounced up and down in the reflection. Her right leg is laid out on the railing, her tiny red painted toes wiggling with excitement. I don’t waste a moment of time, hormones and ego force me down on one knee to kiss her thigh softly. My right arm reaches over and helps her left leg onto the other rail. Looking up at her face and she has her eyes closed with her head tilted up. Horny bodies breathe shallow, teasing sensations sigh deep. Pulling her skirt up a few inches and my tongue runs along her inner thigh. Exhaling slowly as I go, blowing soft puffs of cool air on the tongue’s trail. Slowly now, breathing hot air onto the same spot.

  Moving my mouth to her right leg, my tongue finds the outside seam of her panties. Her natural fragrance is intense and sweet smelling. Flicking tongue darts between panty and skin, just enough that I taste her. She must have been needing this. The elevator stops, soon after Misha jumps over me in an awkward leapfrog.

  “Ereaak!” Misha half-giggles, half-yelps.

  Springing to my feet and I have no idea how long we’ve had an audience. A couple is standing in front of us and waiting semi-patiently. Who knows if it was our obvious adult elevator play, or my stark erection, but their faces disapprove without speech.

  When drinking my steps change styles while words become slurs more spit than spoken. Feet lose their utility to find style and swagger in strutting. Everything changes a little on the sauce, smiles curl deeper as eyes dart below necklines. Drunken walks through the building have my feet seeking to step on only green squares of the hallway’s patterned floor. On my first walkthrough before renting here I thought it was a schizophrenic chess board. Misha watches in amusement as I stretch, hop, lunge, and bounce around the corridor. Insane pawn movement disobeys all the rules of adult behavior. Just before we get to my door, I stop, turn to her, grab her hand and spin her around. Her dress flows around her body and her face beams with a grin.

  Reaching inside my pocket for the keys, the silver one is a snug fit in the lock. There’s irony in keys, much like my penis, they are meant to be put inside things. My dick makes a poor key, fitting inside many locks but never opening anything. Keys without purpose keep doors closed. This jagged metal finds its home, the door opens, and Misha trails behind me. An old pair of my underwear sits by the front door. Without any surprise, spaced out people sometimes space out on this shit. Fuck it. An obvious high step over them and maybe she’ll smile.

  A hasty beeline to the fridge and from the freezer emerges a twixer of spiced rum. Tucking the bottle under my arm, two spare hands find bottles of orange juice and a club soda. Misha is sitting on a bar stool patiently. An eager slide through the curtained border between business and pleasure, an important delivery for sure. Eye contact kept as I walk up to put the bottles down on the black glass bar. One might wonder what a bar is doing in an office space, but when you work with artists, liquor and drugs are frequent and close co-workers. Misha picks up a crystal glass and rubs around the rim with her finger. It hums and she twirls the glass intently. I don’t have time to waste waiting for her to put it down. My head rocks back for rum, a mouthful straight from the bottle. Warmth felt. Two fingers of mine pinch the vessel from Misha’s hand and pour her a Gastown Punch. Half orange juice and equal parts club soda, add spiced rum. I pour one for myself, no cherry garnish as alcohol aesthetics aren’t important when you’re trying to get shitfaced.

  A clink of glass and a toast to nothing we’ve discussed. Popsicle-like flavour washes over my mouth, tangy and sweet, perfect for kissing. Stumblean posture pulls me down over the bar and my lips find Misha’s. She kisses me back hard before giggling after our lips touch for the third time. When her mouth opens her soft tongue thrashes around against mine. She reaches forward and pulls on my shirt, a faint moan erupts from her. Our lips unlock and she breathes out heavily. My war spear rigid with the anticipation of the moment it will be coated in bitch dew. Misha doesn’t hesitate, and slams her drink back in two mouthfuls. Mine is downed in three. She slides out of the barstool and looks around the room.

  A purple leather couch is directly in the middle of the business section, facing a large computer monitor. I must have been doing a presentation again that I forgot about, the middle of the room is usually reserved for art. Misha slowly walks over to the couch and crawls onto it seductively. She is on her elbows and knees, looking back at me with a coy smile from over her shoulder. It’s time to see if there is still some fire to all of this smoke.

  4 Tastes Like Copper

  Three beeps of the alarm, two seconds of dead air and a single thud marks the passing of tonight’s girlfriend. Whipping my arm around and releasing, the fluids-rag flies overhand into the laundry basket, nothing but net. The couch is folded out and I’m sprawled across it nude. The leather under me is warm, I must have fallen asleep. The only sound a whirring of the bathroom fan. A louvered saint of exhaust, I owe those spinning blades so much for putting up with my shit. Sometimes its switch gets neglected and it drones on for days.

  I’m cold. My mother always used to tell me to put on a sweater and socks if I thought the house was chilly. That kid grew into a teenager and began thinking of this as a sign of poverty. A perpetually young adult living on his own and discovering a toasty house can cost a few hundred bucks per month.

  This man shivers.

  Cool air settles on my chest and face. As the colours dance on my eyelids, I try and hold onto the endorphin high from sex a little bit longer. Imagination theater or a memory tour, the curtains that serve to keep both hidden are pulled apart by fatigue. They open when my eyes are closed, in moments I recognize green iron and the white lights of the Lion’s Gate Bridge.

  It’s late and I’m driving, she’s riding with me. You know which one Dylen, the one with the haunted eyes and demure movements. If a cat could ballet, she would be a Persian in point shoes. My little Dark Heart would put a black swan to shame.

  My balls itch. The remnants of my date and I form a cracked and flaking shell of lust on my pelvis and thighs. Waxing poetic just felt so wrong when I’m covered in another woman. My head falls to one side as I exhale a little deeper, my chin sand papering my shoulder. Only a little while
ago her moist and bronze legs held that space, shaking and pushing against me with each thrust. Flashes of the sex I just had battle my muse for attention, swollen rose ruffles of Misha’s vagina lips fade to midnight and city lights.

  I’ve tried to forget how I stopped the car in the middle of the bridge. There were no cars in sight, nothing in my rearview. Hard to believe what she had just said. She told me she felt guilty that I always paid for the gas to drive around with her. No way did I believe my ears. How could she think I didn’t like to drive with her? It was always my pleasure to have her company. The shit she said next still shakes chains in my attic. “I would be here with you without a car, even if you had to double me on a bike, or walk with me, I just like your company.” She must have had too much to drink. I can’t remember if she even drank much that night. It’s easier on my conscience believing she had.

  Sticking your tongue inside a girl is always a game of Russian roulette. You almost never quite know when she showered last, or what sort of diet she has kept lately. Vegans and vegetarians, now they have a light, pleasant taste without the same thickness meat eaters have. This one takes care of herself. Vivid visions of just fucking Misha swim and mix with missing what felt like was a former part of me. Leather and sharp nails, Misha grabs the back of my head and her body shudders. She accidentally brings her heel down hard on my back, I cough into her groin. She giggles. My tongue finds the hood, ducks inside, and does its best flag in a gale. My left arm reaches up to knead one soft breast. She bites and gently sucks on my index finger. A rock hard nipple pokes into the center of my palm. Animalistic instincts guide my body against hers.

  They say if you have a real bad trip on acid, you never quite recover. I’m getting over being lovesick with every little fuck, or at least I think I am. Now I only reminisce about her after fucking another girl, and not every time I drink anymore.