theFUTURISTS

Alright, so I haven’t posted anything in a month and a half because I’ve been busy working on my first novel. Most of my energy (and patience) has flowed into this relatively new endeavor, and I’m beginning to realize that I’ve shirked my responsibilities as a founding father of this fabulous website. So, in the spirit of remorse and making amends (if half-heartedly) I’m throwing up an excerpt of the work  I’ve been slaving over tirelessly these last two months. Bear in mind that it’s quite rough (having been revised zero times). Enjoy.. please.

Her name, wasn’t, isn’t, important.

…

She asked me to wait outside of her modern multi-story apartment on Knight st. Our appointment was for three o’clock and I tried very hard not to arrive late (I pride myself on being a punctual guy — and despise being late), but despite my best intentions I found myself pulling up outside her place at half past three. I had a hell of a time finding the place, driving first down Grandview Highway (12 ave.) and hoping that it would intersect somewhere with Knight. Being quite familiar with the grid-like layout of the Vancouver street system I grew increasingly frustrated as I glanced down at my phone and began to realize that I would never make it on time; of course I’d gone too far, it was time to cut my losses and hit Kingsway (more time consuming but virtually guaranteed to lead me to Knight).

…

My state of mind was frenzied — I could barely hold myself together, still unbelieving of that I’d called her at all — what was I thinking? I’d had my eye on her for some time, considering her to be a jewel surrounded by rough quartz.

…

Oh fuck, what have I done? What had begun as an innocent diversion, a lively if harmless fantasy had quickly taken the form of clear-cut, undeniable, all-consuming obsession. Almost daily I would trudge through hundreds of erotic adds promising all sorts of carnal fulfillment. There were black girls and white girls and spanish girls and brown girls, thin girls and fat girls, shy girls and sly girls and the kind of girls that answered the door wearing big rubber dicks, but then none of them appealed to me save her — her name, her name, doesn’t matter. Until her I could be a tourist, a shopper with his face pressed against the glass, staring in and salivating, smugly patting his back pocket (with the detached air of one who believes whole-heartedly in his own delusion), safe in the knowledge that my money and morals were safe.

…

Damn her for busting up this illusion I’d created — for fucks sake, all I’d ever wanted was to chew the goods, to spit them out, to have the taste in my mouth, to feel that stirring in my belly. All I wanted was the thrill, just that, never to pick up the phone, never to call, never to speak, never to actually meet any of these women, these girls. They lived best, they worked best, when they weren’t real, except for a screen-shot and a short description. Ah, you beautiful, name-less whore!

…

The first time I came across one of your ads I was floored — simply put, they all paled when judged against you. You who so closely resemble a woman, that, passing on the street, would immediately catch my particular eye. I stare in disbelief at your photo and wonder, open-mouthed, is this real? Or am I simply falling mad into the abyss, cracked finally after hanging all these years hard and tough.

…

Your hair is dark, somewhere between black and brown.. exactly how I like it. Strange how with such an apparent disposition towards dark ladies, all the women in my life (the real ones who speak to me and touch me) are blonds. God, how your eyes look out at me and invite me forward, to make them real, sometimes lidded behind a pair of librarians glasses, sometimes naked and shining seductively into mine as if you were really there, living in my computer screen. But your writing, those little one-liners that play bounce-back against whatever title you think up for each of your ads — those silly, sexy little quips that hopscotch across my mind and squirm in my lap — that’s what really got me, raising me to full salute after but a few a syllables.

…

The title: “No gag reflex”, followed by a photo of you in black lingerie and a few words, just enough, “Try me.. it’s Tuesday”.

…

How can a man such as me refuse to be charmed by such a childish turn of phrase — Oh try me, not for my beauty, not for my whorish talent, but simply because it’s Tuesday. My fate was set as soon as I found you, I knew I had to have you, I had to experience your gifts firsthand. But not now, not today, not ever.. Yes. I can be content simply to imagine and to hold my throbbing male piece between my palms, and to breathe deep from the air until my need to breath deep is extinguished with a healthy spurt of heat that finds rest on the soft curve of my stomach. Until today — I don’t know why and I’m not sure how, but today we met — today we coupled and folded and my wish was fulfilled and emptied out, then made vast and ravenous once again. It was the surprise that did it, the opportunity.

…

Work was slow, consequently, I found myself in front of the office computer with nothing to do at one o’clock.It started innocently enough, as these things often do, but slowly (quickly) degraded into a thing of brutish, base impulses.

…

Beast-man! Beast-man! Can you hear me roar with lustful pleasure!

…

Perusing those dark, sticky erotic ads I found myself beginning to wake, my lower half rising to the call of my higher self, now both working in concert to make trouble for the whole. I searched through, allowing breasts, legs, and suggestive words to prepare my lust like a painful, sharp urge, a slow cooked, delectable meal to be eaten from my lap by sloppy hands.

…

I sent an hour like that, imagining unhealthy trysts played out in cold beds with these available strangers (available at a price). I narrowed the criteria of my search, wondering idly if I could find someone to cater to my tastes. I was almost done with it, tired out by desire unfulfilled and left wanton and unattended. It was then at the end of it, as I refreshed my search for what was surely the last time, that I found you again, right there at the top of the page.

…

God, how you called to me.. “Playfully Pink” .. “me” .. “sorry, texts or blocked numbers will be ignored”

…

Imagine my surprise, my absolute shock, at seeing this — so fresh and real — I sat stupified, rocking back and forth,racked with indecision.

…

I had my phone with me, I punched your number then deleted it. Punch and delete, punch and delete, punch and delete, like this I wavered until finally, I dropped to one side.

…

It was the pout in your face and the awkward angle of your pose, it was the promise of your sweetness and your honey, it was your whore’s mouth that I was after.

…

I let the phone ring this time and almost dropped it when you answered, your voice was unexpected — throaty and yes, even innocent — how could it be? We said three o’clock and I decided to take a shower. To wash my cock for a whore. Fast forward now to the beginning of this little tale, before I was side-tracked with explaining.

…

I call her when I’m outside, just as she asked me to do in her childish, slightly manic voice. I apologize profusely for my tardiness, thinking perhaps that she’ll refuse me, a whore’s bed is never empty. She answers with an audible smile (I can hear her lips drawing over her teeth), “It’s okay, I’ll be right down.”

…

FLASH! This is panic. This is fear. This is the urge to run away and forget the whole ordeal. But something glues me to the spot. I imagine her face, the vulgar promise of her profession, and I melt in place, like a hot candle dripping wax and anchoring itself to the candle-stick. I melt for her. Oh god, I see her now, as the elevator opens slowly. She steps forward, she takes my hand, and it is real. No longer is she hope, intangible and easily thrust aside, now it’s all flesh and my heart leaps and jumps madly.

…

I’d decided beforehand to adopt a strategy of duplicity, let there be honesty and misdirection in me.

Why do I feel as if I must impress this whore?

Gunslingrrr

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 8th, 2009 at 5:30 PM and is filed under WORDS. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.