Monday, September 08, 2003
another bit of fiction that i haven't saved to disk yet. It's just bad fiction, go away.
again, just FICTION.
***
So the weirdest secret about me is that when I jerk off I think about when I was 8 and my parents took our family to cape cod in November for Thanksgiving and I spent the afternoons chasing crabs along very cold beaches. I think about black sand caked to my chilly, pale feet, and maybe remember watching the dark ocean horizon at sundown that seemed to eat up the sea into some deep and terrible night. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to die – maybe as an old man tucked away in my bed, surrounded by nurses and dusty pictures of happy faces - waiting almost anxiously to find out what the fuss is all about. Sometimes I think about my next-door-neighbor girlfriend from back east when I was 5, or about the time when my brother drank a glass of bleach by accident and mom made him puke all over the laundry room floor. And sometimes I think about sex.
“Tell me your weirdest secret,” she says.
She is painted in orange hues by the streetlamps in the stadium parking lot; we are lying on the giant inflatable cushion of the high-jump pit, and I have her head nestled softly in my right arm. Her skin is rough from sunburn, her brown eyes are hard to see in the shadows, and her voice natural and pretty. Her breath smells.
“I wish I would have gotten into more fights with my brother growing up” I say, watching moths cloud around the lights overhead. I wonder why I’ve said this, but she doesn’t ask for an explanation.
“More fights. Okay then.” She smiles and shifts to unstick her bare legs from the plastic cushion, and I don’t respond.
“I’m surprised you came up with something so fast.”
I’m still thinking about what to say next, and an empty space crawls into our conversation, slipping past us with the distant howl of police sirens. I roll a little closer to her.
“I came up with it fast because it was something I was thinking about earlier and I guess you just caught me off guard.”
I wait, but she doesn’t say anything right away. I decide to bring the conversation back to more comfortable territory.
“Forget it then,” I say, “I suppose you’ve got a good secret you’re waiting to tell me, so I’m not trying to compete.”
This works better.
“No fair,” She laughs. Her lips are centimeters from my left ear. “Compete with me.”
Compete with her.
“Well, I don’t think I’m really in love with my girlfriend,” I say, barely listening to myself as we push inexorably closer to each other. In my head I find that I am suddenly watching myself on three television screens. On the first one I am lying in the high-jump pit with this girl, alone in the stadium in the oppressive night air of late summer in Baltimore, selling myself heart and soul for her rough skin, her bad breath, and her heavy brown eyes. On the second television screen I am in a cold blue room piecing through love letters and screaming at pictures of my girlfriend from her cousin’s wedding. On the third I am standing at the base of the stadium lights, overexposed in orange and white, watching the moths’ rabid, endless orbit.
“That’s not a secret” she giggles – she is tickling me and limbs are touching now. Her hand has found its way into mine and I hold it like it belongs there. “You wouldn’t be here if you loved her.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I were a decent person, either,” I say.
“Don’t say that,” she whispers – a hand is lightly brushing the hair on my forehead. “I’m here too, you know”
“It’s true…” I say, and I trail off again, wondering what about it is true. I find myself suddenly wishing that we could see the stars beyond the pollution of the city lights.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person” she says “I think you’re kind, and interesting, and honest -” She pauses to make sure I am looking at her now.
“…And confused, but that’s not a bad thing. Here, let me tell you my weirdest secret.”
Her lips are brushing the side of my face when she talks and I stop hearing her. I hold her hand tighter and she is kissing my ear. The pictures on the television sets in my head begin to wobble and fade until I can’t see them anymore, and we both seem to sink into the depths of the mattress. Now there are no more weird secrets, no more brothers, girlfriends, stars, or moths. If this were happening in a movie, the camera then pulls away from us, swinging slowly across the darkened panorama to the flickering street lights above the stadium lot. Since it happens in my memory, we go back to her place and hang out with her roommate until she goes to bed and then fuck quietly on the couch with the lights off.
again, just FICTION.
***
So the weirdest secret about me is that when I jerk off I think about when I was 8 and my parents took our family to cape cod in November for Thanksgiving and I spent the afternoons chasing crabs along very cold beaches. I think about black sand caked to my chilly, pale feet, and maybe remember watching the dark ocean horizon at sundown that seemed to eat up the sea into some deep and terrible night. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to die – maybe as an old man tucked away in my bed, surrounded by nurses and dusty pictures of happy faces - waiting almost anxiously to find out what the fuss is all about. Sometimes I think about my next-door-neighbor girlfriend from back east when I was 5, or about the time when my brother drank a glass of bleach by accident and mom made him puke all over the laundry room floor. And sometimes I think about sex.
“Tell me your weirdest secret,” she says.
She is painted in orange hues by the streetlamps in the stadium parking lot; we are lying on the giant inflatable cushion of the high-jump pit, and I have her head nestled softly in my right arm. Her skin is rough from sunburn, her brown eyes are hard to see in the shadows, and her voice natural and pretty. Her breath smells.
“I wish I would have gotten into more fights with my brother growing up” I say, watching moths cloud around the lights overhead. I wonder why I’ve said this, but she doesn’t ask for an explanation.
“More fights. Okay then.” She smiles and shifts to unstick her bare legs from the plastic cushion, and I don’t respond.
“I’m surprised you came up with something so fast.”
I’m still thinking about what to say next, and an empty space crawls into our conversation, slipping past us with the distant howl of police sirens. I roll a little closer to her.
“I came up with it fast because it was something I was thinking about earlier and I guess you just caught me off guard.”
I wait, but she doesn’t say anything right away. I decide to bring the conversation back to more comfortable territory.
“Forget it then,” I say, “I suppose you’ve got a good secret you’re waiting to tell me, so I’m not trying to compete.”
This works better.
“No fair,” She laughs. Her lips are centimeters from my left ear. “Compete with me.”
Compete with her.
“Well, I don’t think I’m really in love with my girlfriend,” I say, barely listening to myself as we push inexorably closer to each other. In my head I find that I am suddenly watching myself on three television screens. On the first one I am lying in the high-jump pit with this girl, alone in the stadium in the oppressive night air of late summer in Baltimore, selling myself heart and soul for her rough skin, her bad breath, and her heavy brown eyes. On the second television screen I am in a cold blue room piecing through love letters and screaming at pictures of my girlfriend from her cousin’s wedding. On the third I am standing at the base of the stadium lights, overexposed in orange and white, watching the moths’ rabid, endless orbit.
“That’s not a secret” she giggles – she is tickling me and limbs are touching now. Her hand has found its way into mine and I hold it like it belongs there. “You wouldn’t be here if you loved her.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I were a decent person, either,” I say.
“Don’t say that,” she whispers – a hand is lightly brushing the hair on my forehead. “I’m here too, you know”
“It’s true…” I say, and I trail off again, wondering what about it is true. I find myself suddenly wishing that we could see the stars beyond the pollution of the city lights.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person” she says “I think you’re kind, and interesting, and honest -” She pauses to make sure I am looking at her now.
“…And confused, but that’s not a bad thing. Here, let me tell you my weirdest secret.”
Her lips are brushing the side of my face when she talks and I stop hearing her. I hold her hand tighter and she is kissing my ear. The pictures on the television sets in my head begin to wobble and fade until I can’t see them anymore, and we both seem to sink into the depths of the mattress. Now there are no more weird secrets, no more brothers, girlfriends, stars, or moths. If this were happening in a movie, the camera then pulls away from us, swinging slowly across the darkened panorama to the flickering street lights above the stadium lot. Since it happens in my memory, we go back to her place and hang out with her roommate until she goes to bed and then fuck quietly on the couch with the lights off.
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