by Leif Wright
I wouldn’t complain about becoming addicted to this, she had thought. I totally get it now.
Meth had embraced her, enveloped her, encased her in soft, warm, gelatinous pure pleasure like nothing else she had ever felt. Someone could have burned her house down around her and she wouldn’t have cared. That feeling of complete warm perfection was the purest thing she had ever experienced, and nothing could ruin that ecstasy, not even Paul, disgusted, throwing down the pipe, shattering it and screaming, “I’m getting the fuck out of here, you fucking tweaker.”
It didn’t matter. Having sex with disgusting, smelly, ugly men who had to pay to get anyone to give it up—that didn’t matter either. It was such a small price to pay to be wrapped in the warm, loving embrace of true heaven on earth, even though each time it seemed less pure, less present than it had the first time, eventually, she knew, she’d get the right mix again and feel that, just one more time. So it didn’t matter that this one liked it rough, biting her shoulder, slapping her face, and ramming his needle dick into her like a demented porn star with much more to ram. She didn’t care, because heaven was one more trick away.
If he blew it and came inside her, she could charge him double and get high right away.
She avoided mirrors now—not for any existential reasons, but just because they cruelly showed how her face had hardened over the last year, her youth prematurely stolen by the things she had to do to buy forty-five minutes of happiness. If her life had rolled out according to plan, she would be working in an office somewhere right now, wearing too-tight pants and “accidentally” showing too much as she bent over the boss’s desk to show him the latest report on something or other. Then she would go home to Paul and their 2.5 kids. Paul would have put on ten extra pounds, but he would still be sexy after a long day framing a house in a nice neighborhood, working his way up to foreman and then starting his own contracting business, just like his dad. They would have eaten dinner, watched TV, put the kids to bed, and then snuck in fifteen minutes of pedestrian sex before dozing off and starting again.
Her daydream was interrupted by a slap to the face as the fat guy rudely pulled at her shirt while he grunted.
“Let’s see those titties,” he groaned. “I like to see ’em bounce. Makes me come.”
God, his breath stank. Probably gingivitis.
There’s a toothpaste for that, she thought. Even comes in multiple flavors in case you don’t like the taste of straight toothpaste. But flossing is the real key, Bucko. If you don’t floss, those tiny little germs build up a fort around the roots of your teeth and then start eating them, and before you know it, you look like Gabby Hayes.
She mechanically unbuttoned her brown flannel shirt and pulled up her sports bra, noticing with clinical observation as his eyes fixed on each breast as they rolled out beneath her bra. Her boobs had been the one part of her that meth hadn’t ruined. They were still, as Paul had said back when they still liked each other, “Playboy titties”, white, firm, big, with half-dollar pink nipples that were soft and inviting.
She felt his thrusting become more urgent, his thin dick getting a little more erect, a little thicker. Good. This would be over soon.
She felt the warmth spread inside her before she heard his grunts turn into moans and mutterings of “oh god” as he stared at her boobs jiggling with each thrust. Better yet. That meant $40, and she could go get high right away instead of trolling the parking lot for the next desperate trucker with blue balls.
“God, I never woulda guessed your titties’d be that nice,” he said breathlessly as he pulled his flaccid member out of her. “I bet you used to be a real looker.”
The sudden mention of how she used to be—the lust object of every boy in school—made her self-conscious, and she pulled her bra down over her breasts, quickly buttoning her shirt over it. Her panties still pulled to the side, exposing what her mother had called her “most private place” didn’t bother her nearly as much, because he hadn’t mentioned that body part.
“You came inside me,” she said in a businesslike fashion. “That’s double price. We talked about that.”
“Fine,” he said. Good. She hated when the guys argued. She was a tiny girl, and it’s not like she could have forced them to pay at all, much less double. “Fifty dollars then. Damn, those titties are worth it. Show ’em to me again for an extra twenty?”
She wasn’t about to mention that he’d made a mistake and already thought he owed her ten more than he actually did.
“Okay,” she said. “But no touching. That costs more.”
“Okay,” he agreed. Incredibly, his dick appeared to be getting hard again at the thought. “But for twenty, you need to take your top completely off. Don’t just pull your bra up.”
She sighed and adjusted her body to start unbuttoning. Absentmindedly, she pulled her panties back over to cover herself.
“No,” he said, breath quickening. “Take those off too. I want you naked.”
His dick, still glistening from the mixture of him and her, was hard again.
“If you touch me again, that’s another fifty,” she said with little conviction. “A hundred twenty total.”
With that, she could stay away from the parking lot for days.
He nodded, grabbing his dick as she pulled her panties down, then lifting her legs and taking them completely off.
“That’s right,” he said, breath quickening more, stroking himself. “Spread them. Show me everything.”
She hoped her eye roll wasn’t noticed, but she realized she had nothing to worry about. His eyes were locked between her legs, directly on her lips, as his strokes became more rhythmic.
“You like that,” he said. “You like me looking inside you.”
“Oh, yeah,” she replied halfheartedly. “Look inside my tight little twat.”
“Spread it apart for me,” he said, his voice trembling. “Use your hand.”
She did what she was told. There was no end to the variety of things that turned men on. Personally, she thought vaginas were gross, but men seemed to love looking at them.
“Now get naked,” he said. “Hurry!”
She took the rest of her clothes off, trying hard not to roll her eyes as he whispered “Oh, god” when she lifted her bra over her head.
She had never in her entire life felt more exposed as he crawled over every millimeter of her skin with his eyes, paying special attention to anything a bikini would cover, rubbing his cock in his hand as he did it.
“God, were you a cheerleader in high school?”
As a matter of fact she had been, but that didn’t really matter. He was more about the fantasy. She nodded that she had been.
“Play with yourself,” he demanded.
“That’s an extra—”
“I don’t care! Do it! Do it like you do it when you’re alone, like I’m not even here!”
She had lost track of how much money this was earning her. She had long before begun thinking of money in forty-dollar increments, so as she laid back, started pinching her left nipple with her left hand and rubbing her clit with her right hand, the thought of $160 meant four days of meth. Maybe she would charge him $200. Five days. She closed her eyes, and as she rubbed herself, she could hear him grunting, and she could imagine it was Paul there watching her. Beautiful Paul, strong, funny, sexy Paul.
Holy shit, I might actually be able to come, she thought as she thought of Paul taking over, licking her, then moving his way up over her, putting just the tip in, then driving it all the way home as she moaned and thrust against him, grinding to get him deeper, just a bit deeper. She could feel the orgasm building, feel her body start to respond to Paul, feel the wetness flood her, hear tiny moans escape her throat. I’m going to come. She had never had an orgasm during a trick, but she was about to. Her toes clenched up, her back arched, and she could feel the muscles inside her tighten.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Yes. Yes!”
Apparently, the truc
ker took that as his cue, because just as she came, wetness flooding out of her onto the upholstery, he put himself back into her, pushing it in as far as it would go. She didn’t even mind; her body was consumed by the orgasm, her mind consumed by Paul so much that even this guy’s thin dick felt like Paul’s much thicker one. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper inside her, as she came again.
It was too much for the trucker, and he shot his second load into her.
And, just like that, Paul, who had been paranoid about getting her pregnant, disappeared and she was back in the cramped sleeper of a semi with a fat, smelly trucker with a needle dick buried inside her, already going soft again. She opened her eyes just in time to catch his face, still scrunched up from the orgasm, and for the briefest of moments, her entire life was exposed to clarity. She was a prostitute, fucking strange guys for money to buy drugs, and she was naked, with guy number whothe-hell-knew inside her, whose name she would never know, whose face she would forget as soon as she bought another rock.
A tear quickly escaped her eye.
“Wow,” he said finally, his breath invading her nostrils. “That’s the best I’ve ever had. I don’t think I’ve ever gone in for seconds.”
Somehow, the compliment rang hollow as revulsion tried its damnedest to work its way up through her body and into her stomach. Willing it down, she swallowed hard.
“It’s too bad I have to kill you,” he said casually. “You’re something special.”
43
1973
GOD, WHY COULDN’T THAT KID JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP?
Richard Turner rubbed his temples, vainly massaging against the threat of an impending migraine. He could already feel the muted throb deep in the center of his head, knowing all too well the debilitating stabs of pain and white light were coming for the backs of his eyes soon. They’d probably be here in less than half an hour, and that goddamn screaming kid wasn’t helping.
The little bastard looked just like his mother, which further pissed Richard off. Whore. She flirted like a damn street walker with what seemed like every guy she came across, and she dressed like a whore every time she went to that stupid job as a waitress at the local greasy spoon whose name he couldn’t even be bothered to remember. Pimping her tight little ass out for the scraps people laid on the table for her when they were done eating. It was embarrassing.
And it reminded him that, no matter how hard he worked, no matter how he perspired and strained, he could never bring home enough money to keep that bitch and her little crotchspawn satisfied.
The kid shrieked in laughter at something in his bedroom, sending a spike of evil through Richard’s temples. When he was able to open his eyes again, his fists were clenched and his teeth were gritted, lips bared back.
Archie Bunker came on the TV. He was the only sensible person on the damn thing these days, with the dirty, sex-crazed hippies and big-afro negroes taking over everything else. Archie Bunker got it. He understood. Communists didn’t need to send in their armies—all they had to do was tell the women and the blacks they were equal to the white man and bam, down the tubes with democracy.
Some swinging dick was probably giving it to the little bastard’s mother right now. Probably a big black dick. That would probably lead to a big tip for the whore, left on a dresser instead of a dirty diner table, her scooping up the crumpled bills with one hand while she wiped his spunk from between her legs with the other. God, how he hated that bitch and her little screechy bastard of a son.
He rubbed his temples again. Archie’s crone of a wife was panicking about something or other and his whiny daughter was crying. Still, the show was less annoying than that brat and his noise. He had been told to shut up, spanked, threatened, screamed at, yet he still kept up with the shrieking, laughing, screaming, and ga-ga baby talk bullshit.
If Richard could have been sure it was his son, things might have been different, he thought. But this little bastard didn’t look anything like him. He looked just like his bitch of a mother, probably would grow up to be a fag hippie like all her college-educated friends, too, growing a big, bushy beard that looked more like a face full of pubic hair and spewing book-learning bullshit about Chairman Mao and how Marxism was so much smarter than God-given capitalism.
God, he hated that kid.
His head throbbed again, just in time to coincide with another loud giggle and shriek from Mama’s little effeminate bastard. He couldn’t even hear Archie Bunker anymore over the whoosh of blood in his ears and the babble from little Prince Perfect probably tearing up more toys his mother had fucked someone for the money to buy. Richard worked hard, but all that fucking bitch could ever say was that he needed to help more around the house, help her with the kid, blah, blah, blah.
But he was tired. He was too young to be this tired, but that didn’t change the reality. His back hurt all the time now. His knees bitched at him every morning when he woke up, and after work, he could barely wrap his hand around a beer. He was tired after a long day of work, and all he wanted to do was sit in his chair, watch Archie Bunker, MASH, and maybe 60 Minutes before he dozed off to sleep only to wake to the harsh gargles of the alarm clock that screamed at him every morning.
When he had first seen Sherry five incredibly long years ago, she had captivated him. Not so much what she said—he never really could get on board with all that hippie bullshit—but her beauty had been something many people in movies said—stunning. Hers had been in the literal sense of the word. She stunned him. One glimpse at her took his breath away.
Twenty-two, she had still looked like a high school junior, albeit one with the body of a Playboy model—big firm breasts, tight abdomen, and a nice round ass. But it had been her face that had done him in. That angelic face, that face full of wonder and hope, smiling her white, straight smile at the drop of a hat. Everything about her had been perfect.
That first look had been all he needed. Of course his first thoughts had been about how to get her naked, so he had worked up every bit of charm he could muster.
She had been out of his league, he had known that without a doubt, but he had been full of piss and vinegar back then and he had been successful aiming for the fences, so he took a shot, and to his surprise, she had responded, whether on a whim or because she really liked him, and they had become a couple, making all of Richard’s friends jealous.
“You must have a huge cock,” Silas had said when Richard and Sherry had first gotten together. “There’s just no other way a fine piece of ass like that would ever be with you.”
He had liked the attention, liked the feeling of success she had given him. Everyone he knew was jealous of him for a change—jealous of Junkyard Richard, who had already endured a lifetime of stigma being the son of the man who owned the town’s only junkyard, filled with other people’s castoffs. Now they weren’t calling him Junkyard Richard anymore. They were talking about how big his dick must be to have snagged such a woman. It made him proud for the first time in his life. Finally, he had something everyone else wanted, and it felt good. It felt right.
That had been before he had noticed how a ring on her finger didn’t seem to stop her from continuing to cast out her bait, wearing skimpy clothes more fit for a brothel than a restaurant, flirting with men and smiling when they told her how great her tits looked.
“They’re not hurting anything by looking,” she had said. But they weren’t looking at her anymore, he had said. They were looking at his wife. Didn’t she see the difference?
The disgusted look that had crossed her face told him she didn’t see the difference. Other men were disrespecting him, but she couldn’t understand that. All she could see was the same shit she had seen her entire life—men falling over themselves to get her attention in hopes of getting into her tight little pants.
She had spewed some communist hippie bullshit about how patriarchal society had always tried to own women and how marriage had been a property exchange and how even women changing their
last names was a symbol of male dominance and ownership. On and on until it felt like his ears would bleed.
He spat on the floor in front of him as Archie Bunker threw his cigar down and made a face. Archie understood. Communists and their hippie spawn were tearing this country apart, his own wife included. John Lennon was the antichrist, yellow slopes were killing everyone who didn’t have a bad back and the dirty college students were busy protesting about how good they had it in the Land of the Free. Everyone was up in arms about some hotel bullshit in Washington; meanwhile, the red Commies were practically marching on downtown. It made Richard sick.
And that artsy fartsy little bastard of Sherry’s was going to grow up just like them, probably grow his hair down to his asshole and talk about how love could solve all the world’s problems.
That made Richard sick, too. If the little bastard was by some miracle Richard’s son, that made him even sicker, because it would mean a son of his—blood of his blood—would be some pussy hippie smoking pot and protesting America. Little bastard was in his room right now probably forming his toys into a little army of comrades to join the negroes and tear down what white American men had worked so hard to build.
If his head didn’t hurt so bad, he would have gotten up and kicked the little shit’s ass just for what he might do in the future. That thought made Richard chuckle, his brief mirth murdered by the stabbing pain shooting through his temples, touched off by the laugh. Even thoughts of beating his son caused him pain. Everything about that little bastard and his bitch of a mother caused Richard pain. Yet here he was, day after day, ripping his back a new asshole lifting other people’s garbage so he could put a roof over the little bastard’s head and feed his loud little mouth. Did he get any appreciation from the whore? Hell no. All he got from her was more griping, more discontent, more hippie bullshit.
She was still beautiful, but her spell had long ago dissipated into the hard reality of living together. All he wanted now was for her and her son to shut up and let him live his life in peace.