I’m at another random bar with another random stranger wearing your pants, no panties, and waiting to bleed.
I wonder if he can smell it…
Tonight’s trick is attractive. He’s tall. He has dreadlocks. He has blue eyes.
He fucked his girlfriend before he came out to meet me in order to spite her. If I had FuckBook, I would see her fat face two profile pictures back.
That’s not me though.
He doesn’t know that your dick was in my mouth a few hours before I came out. Before I put your pants on. After you shot that kid in Afghanistan who was scared and strapped with dynamite.
You don’t talk about that.
I don’t talk about that.
Dreadlocks is telling me that even though I’m a yank, I’m entitled to government benefits as an Australian citizen. This conversation somehow morphs into me saying I don’t identify with systems or rules. And if I’m under arrest, it’s for something I was unaware of.
I don’t tell him how I’ve been assaulted. I don’t tell him that my sister stalked his FuckBook two dates back and told me that his girlfriend has two kids and likes Spiritualized. She’s a taurus and loves peanut m&ms. She loves her mother.
His girlfriend doesn’t come out on full moons drunk, getting drunker, with complete strangers, wearing her third husband’s trousers and nothing underneath.
Nothing underneath.
I like how blue his eyes are. They sparkle wildly as he sucks another cigarette and I swallow my real feelings about tobacco.
I am always sucking my feelings.
I take a picture of the bar and text it to you while he’s in the toilet checking to see if his girlfriend is looking for him.
She’s not.
When he comes back and starts talking I’m not listening because there’s music in my head.
I’m lipping the words but he doesn’t notice my mouth moving. The same way he hasn’t noticed that I’m wearing low slung military slacks hanging off my bony hips.
I decline a ride home and meekly lean toward him briefly resting limp arms on tall shoulders.
I walk home in silence. Waiting.