Friday, November 24, 2006

Evilish

Sometimes, it makes me mad that I can't choose heroin like some people choose sponge cake, or soda, or cigarettes. If it was harmful, I could understand. But a beautiful, natural plant, that could cost virtually nothing, banned because of..? Perhaps the addiction? But isn't smoking and sugar and videogames and sex and shopping and anything delicious that you love.... isn't that all addictive too? The crime and exploitation, the sex industry, the desperate beggars blamed on heroin- they come from the insane cost, nothing else. Calm, usually gentle people, too sensitive to face the shadows of the world, why are they forced into desperation? Moral dilemmas that equate to torture... all due to cost... hiked by goverments, driven into a dark scary place no one should ever find themselves. A stereotype that families can't see past. Mistrustful eyes, calculating every movement. Suspicious of your thoughts, handbag always locked within gaze, carried tightly to the bathroom. Lost Anything creates a panic and pointed fingers. Those were the people who used to love you. Deadbolting twice, thrice, locks changed, doubt and anger sitting in your old chair. You chose it, you had been warned, you did it anyway. Filthy, embarrassing, defective gene. Suffering is what you deserve. Maybe that will treat you a lesson. Pretending you want to quit!! IF YOU WANT TO, WHY DON'T YOU? I'll leave you if you do it again. Ultimatums are for your own good.

The only friend who understands you is one fast phone call. Three bills from somewhere sickening (not to be thought about), to be repaid before anyone notices, the flick of the lighter, soft bubbles, the barrel steadily filling, nice and brown. The first "I love you," hot breath as he nuzzles your neck, panties ripped off with one hand, the other holds you down. Teasing. Impossibly slow body lowering close but god, still not touching, hard cock brought to the soft dip beside the pubic bone, frustration seething, still no flesh to flesh. It skims your angry lower belly. Desperate hands stlll trapped. His body smooth and strong and forceful. No chance to pull him close. He's eating your earlobes, the hollows of your neck. The breath drags lower, hip bones licked. Your legs kicking, fighting, hips raised, anything to reach his. The cock laughing. Unrelenting, playing, always just a thrust away from a sigh. Cock slippery now, smells that fill your head. Hot and throbbing, you're really squirming now, you yell and curse. You hate him, you hiss. You're convulsing, your wet patch sending streams splashing in bottom creases, tracing cheeks to pool, warm and flowery. And then, your body crushed to bed, every surface matching his, fingertip to fingertip, nipple to nipple, lips to lips, hips ground so tight together every curve seems locked. Lego-like. His cock filling you up in the middle of it all. Throbbing so hard, waves rock through your veins. And then he pulls half out. Flips you over. You know what to do, a puppet, sliding to your knees, keeping him inside you. Starving for more, deeper, harder. Butt nuzzling hard into his pelvis, working his cock in. Greedy. Fat-personish, pulling away from a drive-thru, both hands in their mouth. Shoveling it in. Trying for every little bit, in...in...in as far as possible. So far in it hurts. His hands on your hips. He's teasing for a second, not helping, letting you struggle. And then, one hand around your throat, pulling you tight, he slams in. And your body goes limp with relief, he's rocking his hips, slamming and slamming. Your breath has stopped in your throat. You're not alive or dead. Maybe you're seeing red, or maybe it's black. No thoughts. Velvety oblivion. Catapulted, head first through the air. Your heart is hurting it's so happy.

That's the first blossom, the smooth whoosh of blood, colouring the brownish yellow magic with a hearty welcome. Thumb to plunger, a digit with emotion, singing cheerily. Steadily pushing, responsible, stern. Every act, each facet to the ritual must be observed. Drawing back, checking, pushing, checking. To the hilt. Loosening my handbag strap. A mother's love, a lover's love, a best friend's love. The feeling of a cathedral, where believing in god is easy. That moment your first child, slippery with blood, looks into your eyes. Elation, hope, pride, all the moments that make you so glad to be alive, forgetting the rape, your mother's failed chemo, the husband who left for milk and never came back.

With light in your veins, tragedy replaced with love... It seems odd that this is an "evil" craving. Plaid shirt, ipod wearing crowds fuck condom-free. You're okay until you know what you are missing. A friend who will never judge, beside you... inside you. Hating it... is like? I don't know, it's like hating laughing. No more laughing you bad, bad girl. Tears are the real you, get used to it.

3 Comments:

Anonymous mary b said...

Wow girl..this should be written under any dictionaries definition of heroin addiction.

So right on it hurts..as does my newly flled tooth right now..so I'm off to meet & plunge the lover you so eloquently describe & speak of..and fast too.

You so covered it.

x0x

10:52 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

It's so easy to judge people, so few try to walk in someone else's shoes.

4:31 PM  
Blogger The Very Reverend Ace Clemmons, Jr. said...

wow tui, well written!!!

11:21 AM  

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