She's breathing deep and painfully through her teeth as I'm telling her to calm down.
Everything's okay. I'm saying, This is just us falling apart.
She relaxes her joints, and I can tell by the direction her pupils have marked, she's somewhere close to me.
This doesn't feel like love.
This is more like endless amounts of who knows what.
I'm most likely kidding myself if I think I know what love feels like.
You're most likely kidding yourself if you think I somehow care.
She starts coughing, and I hold her tight in an unsuccessful attempt to appear compassionate. Or maybe, if I'm being brutally honest, (and why shouldn't I be?) I'm just trying to get into her pants, without the triviality of foreplay.
This isn't what you think.
Before she was tripping black on blue acid but sometime after she had a couple of shots of Jack, she managed to wrestle my car keys away and shove them down into her panties. I took the liberty of allowing introductions to fall by the wayside. Through clouds of fantastical smoke and images I'm too fucked up to imagine, she's telling me her name is Siren. I'm laughing like a fucking donkey, if, well, donkeys were hopped up on lavender pills and capable of laughing. Who says they aren't?
Stop trying to talk, I tell her. Just ease up for a second.
I not-so-casually shove my hand down her pants, into her panties, and the first thing I notice is that she's practically shaved smooth. This feels recent. The second thing I notice, her jerking in my arms, moaning like a fucking demon before the sunrise, is that, she appears to have a dick.
Um. It's all I can think to say.
"It's not real," she tells me.
It sure feels real to me.
It sure feels real to me, I say.
She starts laughing and I'm wondering if her name is really Siren. What I'm not wondering, and perhaps should be, is if she is really a he, and if so, can I still fish out my keys and not feel bad about myself in the morning?
"It's a strap-on."
I bet it is. I'm asking, Where's the strap in strap-on?
"Feel around some more, loser."
I lightly brush some kind of fabric and I am reluctant to spend too much time down here on the probable chance that she sports jock itch.
I look at her throat. She isn't choking on an apple, so I relax a little.
I'm not exactly at ease, but at least I can say I tried.
I find my keys and all is well again.
Except, of course, that's she wired on chemicals that would've taken out Keith Richards had they been around during his hey-day. For fuck's sake, I really wish I could figure chicks out.
She appears suddenly to be spitting up blood, and she somehow finds the strength to ask me my name.
I lie and don't tell her I'm Tom.
I think I say my name is Ryan. It's funny, cuz I don't look at all like a Ryan.
