City of Singles

by Jason Bryan

  Dreamland awaits me.

  A person in the suite above me peeing. A faint stream of urine in a toilet, a softening plinking of piss-beam into drops; the flush. Living there, I really began to experience how gritty life can be. People move through their routine looking for stimulus while oblivious to seeking higher purpose. Painted little lottery balls in a tumbling golden cylinder, life revolving the ball-cage around crashing people into each other, leaving their marks and smudges. Some colours never run, others change greatly over time, others go blank. Maybe if I had been raised differently, I would have never been in the position to see life like this. Meetings are much less random when you’re goal driven and have faith in a culture or way of life, rather than seeking stimulus to quell boredom and piss yet another meaningless day away.

  It’s funny to recall how important it was to me as a teenager that my girlfriend was a virgin. I lost my virginity at 15 and then dated a 13 year old for six months, taking her virginity due to little supervision, total boredom, and raging hormones. When I wasn’t in school, I was invisible to my divorced parents, their single lives taking precedence. Was that the start of seeking so much sex for pleasure, the fact that we could have such pleasurable fucking with no worries or consequence, freeing me from boredom? I think of what the Church said about contraceptives over the years and wonder if they were right to a degree. Does it take the love out of it? No, it frees us from the limits of our bodies. We can fuck and enjoy more of life because of contraceptives.

  Right?

  I shouldn’t blame drugs for my own promiscuity, and being promiscuous isn’t bad. You’re only a boring prude if you don’t fuck as many hot bodies as possible. Maybe being a swinger is the ultimate goal; to have a mate that allows you sex with anyone you choose, safely.

  I don’t want to ruminate on this, when I turn ideas over in my head this much, I feel like that shit smelling homeless guy screaming about the end of the world. To what point does this thinking lead to? It never does anything better for my life. My youthful-self had such idealistic views to what sex was supposed to be like, special, loving. I’m 35 now and sex is the last thing I care about when it comes to a girlfriend. I picture the type of woman who I want to date, and it’s someone who needs me, and wants to be needed by me. Free, yet together.

  I squeeze the flesh in my hands, and I’m soft. The sensation brings back more memories. The married Russian girl I fell for, her style, love, and dreams were all so European and all very lady like. She surprised me with food, gave me hour long massages, and would love to lay in bed and kiss for hours. She looked strikingly similar to one of the girls I ended up with at Chris’s den of debauchery. Crocodile girl.

  I shiver as I recall how Chris dumped a bucket full of snow on me while I was sleeping, what a fuckhead. I woke up gasping for air as powder filled my nose and caused me to inhale, choking on it and falling out of bed in my underwear to laughter. My first instincts kicked in for flight or fight, and I growled in startled anger. Chris had a whooping, high pitched laugh when he was feeling mischievous, and it followed him into the yard as I sprinted out after him in my ginch. A couple meters outside my door and I realize this might look bad to the neighbors, but I have to toss a few snowballs first. A hard packed iceball slams into Chris’s side on my second throw, the cold air and snow up to my knee pushes me back indoors. I watched from the open doorway as snowballs were crisscrossing the driveway while I could hear girls laughing. He must have picked some up on the way home, again.

  Throwing on pants meant the battle of a lifetime, artillery sized snowballs and body checks into huge drifts of snow that stuck into clothing. The girls were completely soaked when we went back inside, but not in the good way, yet. We offered them shirts to change into while their clothes dried, after we drank paralyzers and put on some music. There were four girls, one of them a cute brunette named Deanna. We ended up hanging out for a few days, sometimes making out when drunk, a lot of petting, a group of horny girls with nothing better to do and a couple of 19 year old guys with access to liquor. I remember Deanna asking me to go get her nachos from 7-11, which I did. After I got back and she finished eating, I remember her telling me I get my reward now. She brought me into Chris’s room, away from the other girls, pulled off her pants and panties, and spread her legs on the bed. Instantly excited, I got on her, fucked her for a whole total of five minutes, and came on her stomach. She wiped it off with my shirt, pulled up her pants, said “I hope you enjoyed that,” and walked out of the room.

  I would later find out that she was a 17 year old runaway; her father had molested her and threatened to feed her to crocodiles if she told anyone. Chris and I had been contacted by the mother who found the number on her call display. Deanna usually goes missing for a few days at a time, but this time, it was a week. We gave genuine sympathy to the mother and felt bad for a few minutes. This is where Chris started the nickname Crocodile Girl. I met up with Deanna years later off a local dating website, she came over and we had sex on my toilet during a party. Her violently riding me caused the back of the toilet to crack and the subsequent leak and repairs cost me a few hundred dollars. I never saw or heard from her again, but she lingers on in my mind.

  My dick is half hard. I don’t want to think about her. Deanna at 17 and her again at 20 were very similar looking, the 20 year old her had full breasts and a waxed pussy, she showed up to my party in jean shorts and no underwear. She sucked on a popsicle, sitting on the kitchen counter, staring people down. She was aggressive and sure of herself, perhaps the best way she had of hiding her fucked up past. The crotch of the jean shorts weren’t very good at covering her, soft labia peeked out on one side and a few people at the party would whisper to each other to look. I squeeze my penis in hopes the memories of that fucked up chick would go away.

  Waves of dim coloured lights scatter across the backs of my eyelids, the blanket smells of sweat, body odour, heat and lingering girl. I want something else. If fitting into the mold has lead me here, where I’m in bed and recalling so many nameless women I’ve had sex with, then the mold must be broken. This is a sicklove for the bottle, the pill, the line, the pink slit, the high moments of life with none of the downsides and none of the responsibility of having to care about temporary partners. None of the respect or dignity of feeling wanted. A disjointed flashback to a recent fling, we drank at a bar, talked about life. We later ended up fucking on my couch. Vivid images of her pale little ass slide through my mind, my hands on her hips as a spider’s web of blonde hair erupts over her face, neck, and shoulders. Her moaning while I finish on her, she wipes cum off her with a towel while I step to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. She flicks on a light switch to find her panties. I walk back to the couch and slide my hand across it to find cold leather, and take a seat.

  I feel relaxed, she just found her panties. She pulls them on one leg at a time, and with a snap of the elastic, she bursts into tears. “I know you don’t want me here now,” she chokes out through a whisper. Her lithe wrist finds bangles on my desk, clinking together while she slides them up her forearm. I walk over to her and put my arms around her, “Don’t say that, you know I like your company”. She’s right in a sense, I like her as a person, but after sex I just wanted her to leave.

  Emotions battle nitric oxide inside my confused appendage, images of past sex still pleasantly churning inside my head. My purple couch, the night before the morning I fell in love with her. The girl I call Dark Heart, I can’t drive over the Lions Gate Bridge without her face, her touch, her essence coming to mind. She probably thought I was just another notch on her belt, her having chased me for two months. She had been wasted, had coke given to her by my friend’s ex in the Roxy bathroom. We made out in a 7-11 and knocked a bunch of shit over before we were kicked out. Here she was, on my couch, wasted.

  Her eyes could barely open, she pulled off her pants and panties to spread her legs wide for me, a little bit of hair growth around her juicy and wet slit. I didn�
�t want to fuck her like the rest. I didn’t want it to be this way, just another fluid swap, a girl that I feel from the inside a few hot times before she becomes memory. I touched her delicate parts and lost interest in her body, her being completely wasted made me feel like I could be anyone. She would fuck anyone right now. I fell asleep next to her naked, and woke up stewing in her piss.

  She pissed the couch.

  We woke up at roughly the same time, her face a grimace of hangover and headache. She asked me for a ride home, I grunted no. I was laid down in her piss and didn’t feel like fucking driving. She got dressed and saw herself out, I stood up and the smell hit me. Body heat warmed urine over leather, if I marketed a cologne, this would have to be it. The couch took hours to clean. I’ll never forget as I was showering off her golden juice, how much I actually liked her. I didn’t fuck her like the ones before her, I wanted it to mean something. What a pussy, I felt like a total faggot for not nailing that hot slut right then and there. What weakness I showed by not giving her what she wanted, a good hard drunk fuck. At least then she would have remembered me, what I felt like inside her. So many women I only remember because of sex. If I had just fucked her, maybe she’d remember me. I sigh. She once told me unhealthy people love in unhealthy ways; I’m beginning to think she was right. My hand kneads my penis; completely limp.

  15 Phoning It In

  Seagulls and brake squeal don’t get me out of bed, but having to pee does. I usually leave my phone beside my bed when I sleep, in case anyone needs to reach me in the middle of the night. I always had the idea that a real friend is someone you could call at any hour, if your car had a flat, or if you’re feeling shitty. My friends now mostly don’t have cars, and we drink away our feelings together. Stumbling to the toilet and my aim is spray and pray, I don’t think I hit the water at all. I flush my deep orange away as a darkened toilet nags me to drink more water.

  Sleeping bones need a few stretches while my brain is a sluggish mess until coffee. I feel reborn. Last night I must have spent hours holding onto my cock and pondering life, it’s already noon. The smell of diesel exhaust hits my nose as beeps from a backing up truck puts me in an urban trance. Dazed, I sit down on the couch while the coffee priest begins to dribble a commune with his people. What conclusion did I come to last night? I don’t remember if there was one. My phone is beautiful. The icons greet me with cheer and usability maximized by pleasant colours and developer conferences. A few texts from friends, one interests me for more than a passing moment. Misha wanted to come by at 10 with some banana bread, her next message is a reminder for this evening.

  I don’t remember what day it is. A few taps and I know it’s another Friday, my mind floods with prediction of enjoyment tonight. Kiki and Misha are always fun, I love to rub upper class elbows. Little crackers with jelly, cheese, crab meat. Tangy cocktails of lemon juice paired with pomegranate juice, a hint of mint and enough sparkling white to give it some fizz. They’ll call it something like lounge/garden fusion, proper speak for getting your lean on. Having lived in fucking poverty I can appreciate getting robo’d up while worrying about rent. You just have to remember to pick the right bottle for the DXM trip, keep an eye on those aspirin levels because those ambulance rides aren’t cheap. The crowds at the fashion shows never have had to live in a roach-filled bachelor suite, their smiles and gaits are groomed. Shiny, new, so perfect are these luxurious apes.

  My grey sport coat will work with my tight black pants. I call them the ball crushers, after discovering that sitting without supportive underwear will turn my grapes into wine. The black CK’s need a wash, I was out with some chick last week and make-out fueled precum left a stain in them that vaguely looks like Russia. Vodka for predrinks if the girls meet me here first, if not, I still have an unopened twixer here I was saving for myself.

  My mind wanders, opening Facebook on my phone. Wish the coffee maker would hurry the fuck up. Mindless status updates, political links, pictures of people’s snotty kids, a Rhianna video with her ass and titties hanging out. Phil Corgiman, a Facebook dog I added months ago, wrote a message that resonates within me.

  ‘Hello my facebook friends! Woof! My owner and his girlfriend aren’t getting along anymore. :`( Sometimes people aren’t sure of what they want or who they are and people do change! I don’t think I’ll be around to be friends with all of you for much longer. I want you all to know that I will miss you so much and that over the last year you all made me really really really really REALLY! HAPPY!. Maybe if mom and dad can work things out I’ll be back but right now it doesn’t look good mom won’t be around to update this page anymore after this so take care all!!! I will miss you, Bye! –Phil n mom’

  Breaking up for me has mostly been easy, losing interest after a brief period or a couple years at most, just repeatedly finding it was time to move on. I miss having those uneasy flutters inside of deep attraction and adoration, rather than the lust in my dick that drives me now. My mind floats an image of a butterfly, black and digesting inside me. Yellow majestic wings which once brought me love carried on the winds of pleasant rewarding anxiety, caring. These once brilliant monarch masts are now torn and folded, bubbling in a pool of acidic stomach bile. The happy little cartoon butterfly face blackens as it liquefies and becomes a caved in, blistered nothing, dead and putrefied. Losing the butterflies is numbing, losing a dog would be heartbreaking.

  Coffee’s ready.

  My afternoon is a smear of caffeine and work. A client buys three paintings, new art gets hung up, and I upload some porn movies to advertise the hot seller of the month; black lesbians. If art sales is connecting people with manifestations of emotions, thoughts, and perspectives, porn sales is about getting people into lust. I exploit the brain’s inability to see beyond sex organs and wide open holes, feed them what they crave in the moment and move that product. The people in the videos are inanimate objects, props. I post porn to YouJizz the same way someone puts up a piece of their art on my gallery wall.

  You put the paint in the right places on canvas to illicit thoughts, a price tag next to it. The porn has men and women who are just products, animated dolls without any mind connection to me, just holes and holefillers arranged like marionettes dancing for a crowd of men sitting in the dark, the backgrounds of most porn sites are white. Monitor glow always reminded me of indoor moonlight. I can block these thoughts out long enough to sell it online, the extra cash put towards liquor and party favours. The bodies of beautiful women used for masturbatory purposes, the complete amputation of intimacy. I learned how to cum on a girl’s face from porn, but I never liked the girl much after I did that. This bout of afternoon depression is chased away with a lighter and a fat joint, thinking this way can’t be healthy. Not thinking at all is my preferred state.

  Misha calls me, her and Kiki are driving through Kits blasting music. The raw excitement of her voice yanks my face into a grin. Misha laughs and tells me Kiki had a shot of tequila with dinner and is driving drunk, Kiki protests on speaker phone, but her crackling laugh only makes her sound wasted. I laugh. I want to tell her to pay more attention to the road, but relax and put some faith in my friends being responsible enough not to drive when shitfaced. I hope. Misha barks that they’re on their way and I need to be ready. There’s no way the parking meter is going to steal money from Misha’s ‘Gettin’ Juiced’ fund. My mind dreams of biting and sucking on Misha’s tits. I could block it out, but I just took off the cap of a 26’er of JD and embrace it wholly. Come to think about it, I need some new tits to suck on.

  A few sips of that brew and I’m rip roaring ready to go out. I throw on some angry black people music to put me in the mood to party, and even comb my hair. A fresh razor obliterates my neckbeard and I pop a zit on my ear, the fucker bleeds a lot. Another swig of the bottle and I’m putting on my shoes, my fancy jacket’s sleeves are too short when I bend over, need to remember that so I don’t look like a tool. Hunter instinct guides me to grab tools of the trade; my phone, wall
et and keys, finally ready to go. Lock the door, down the hall, elevator, and I’m on the street. Kiki and Misha spot me before I see them, and several blasts on the horn and my eye finds them flashing high beams from down the block. “Get the fuck over here!” Misha yells through the sunroof.

  “Coming Mish, hold on,” I mutter. A trip crossing the street and my shoe squishes a big pile of shit on the other curb. Fuck. Walking up to Misha’s car, I show them the shit and Kiki hands me a water bottle with a spray nozzle top. “Dylen your neighborhood is so fucking gross. You probably have bedbugs, too.” Misha frowns. I spray the shit off as best I can, as a single corn husk is stuck in the tread of my shoe. I begin to wonder how many dogs eat food with corn in it, and try to block out the thought as I hop in the back of Kiki’s ride.

  Kiki floors it. The car rockets up the street and Misha nearly drops the drink she hands me in a plastic bottle. “All I had, white rum, your favorite!” Misha cackles, obviously she hit the sauce already. Taking a swig and the lukewarm white rum makes me gag.

  “Oh fuck you Dyl!” Kiki yells as she pulls over 3 lanes of traffic to stop.

  “No, keep going, I’m not going to puke dummy,” I reply, choking back bile.

  I take another swig and my stomach contents go back down my throat. Kiki pulls back into traffic and I hand Misha the nearly empty bottle.

  “We are going to have so much fun tonight guys!” Kiki bubbles as she blows a yellow. “Seriously, this show is going to be amazing. There’s light art, beautiful fashion, some incredible jewelry, and the DJ has opened for Tiesto!” Misha fast forwards a shitty track into a kicking party anthem, my head nodding back and forth to the tunes while Jack and rum fight it out in my system.

  Three near collisions and several yellow lights dashed through, we arrive in the Olympic village, near the venue for the fashion show. Kiki pulls out a white security card and pulls into an underground parking ramp. With a swipe the gate opens up to reveal an almost empty lot.