The Liar

Let’s see now, I’ve been up for barely two hours and I’ve already smoked fifteen cigarettes. What does that say about me? After all, I’m supposed to have quit smoking five months ago. My girl (okay, she’s not my girl, she’s the cheapest escort I could find, but for all intents and purposes, since I fucked her most of the night, she’s my girl until she leaves, especially since I paid her for it) is still sleeping, drooling lightly on my recently-washed pillow; it makes me wonder if her pussy is drooling, too. I want to hazard a peek, but I just can’t be bothered to lift the sheets. Plus she might wake up and I’d have to hit her again.

Okay, yeah, so I hit her. But as I said, I paid her, so there. Okay, so she’s not an escort, she’s actually a student of mine. We met at a pub, we talked, we flirted, we kissed, and we drove to my place and then there was screwing and hitting. She asked me to, though. Okay, no, she didn’t. But I could tell she wanted me to. She said: “pretend you’re raping me.” Right, no. She said: “fuck me.” But still, she could have meant that. She probably did. Isn’t there a rumor going around that all women fantasize about being raped? Well, she doesn’t have to fantasize anymore. She should thank me, really.

Shit, okay. Fine. So we didn’t actually kiss in the club. I had some Vicodins left from my surgery two months ago and I gave them to her, telling her she’d feel good. Well, almost. I never had surgery, but I know this guy who did and gave me his Vicodins. And she had a headache and asked me for Ibuprofen and I gave her my pills. So, she fell asleep and I drove her to my place. And then, you know: rape, etc.

Then again, could it be rape? She said “fuck me.” So she was consenting. Yes, she fell asleep after that, but so what? I slapped her to wake her up, I mean I didn’t feel like fucking a sponge, I wanted her to react, you know how it goes. In retrospect, the anal sex was a bad idea, she started bleeding. But no big deal. I fucked women when they had their periods, so: same difference.

Okay, okay. So it wasn’t a woman. But still. The story still holds, more or less. The sex, the bleeding, the pills. Right? In a way it makes it better, because a man, I mean: come on. He could have fought back, but he didn’t. Even if he was in a half-coma.

I gotta wash my pillow case. Okay, so it’s not stained by drool, but blood. I admit it, I get carried away once in a while. They want passion, they get it. A fuck, a kiss, a bite, a punch. It’s all the same.

No. I’m alone. As usual. I never smoked and I am watching the first snow of the year cover my street. I just jacked off to the distant memory of a woman hugging me in a street, of a woman kissing me for the first and last time. Remembering the taste of those sweet lips and that long twice-pierced tongue was enough of a stimulant.

I go back to bed. The woman under the covers moans softly as some faraway dream takes hold of her. I close the curtains, to shade the sunlight from her eyes.

And then I fall back asleep, alone. She by my side.