I think that I suck, but you suck worse

In The Mind of the Bourgeois Reader
by Nathan Tyree

You should keep in mind that this is all in the mind of the bourgeois reader. That’s you, kiddo. And don’t take it wrong when I call you bourgeois; you’re the upper middle class punk, the dumbass with more money than brains and the complete Ashley Simpson discography on CD. Besides, even if you think that the description is completely out of bounds, it’s your own damn fault. Remember punky Brewster, you made me in your image. This is all a filament of your amalgamation. It’s called solipsism, baby. Turn the pages. scan the lines, make it real. So, anyway, here’s the story that you’re creating:

She’s gritting her teeth and grinding her pelvis hard. Her breathing is damn near out of control and I’m certain that she’s finally going to come. She better, soon. If she doesn’t, she’s going to lose her chance.

There’s a whirring- a rattle like something coming apart- thwap, thwap, thwap, THWAP… sprockets are ripping and suddenly I know that the fucking film has thrown itself right out of whack. The lousy old projector does this all the time. The Valkyrie that’s been riding me for half an hour is moaning and on the verge of screaming when I push her off of me and run across the booth to get the film going again. If I don’t have it up and running in about thirty seconds the perverts down below will start screaming and throwing shit up at the windows. So I start working getting a good splice in the celluloid and threading the film back in place.

By the time I have it going she’s sitting with her back against the wall and one ankle pressed against her crotch. A cigarette dangles from her lip. She has a great body. You know the kind of hips- the ones that are just slightly wider than the current standard of perfection. Hips that you can grip and hold on to. Hips that sway when she walks. Who knows what any of that means.

I reach down and pull the cigarette from her lips and raise it to my own. That leaves her oral fixation unsatisfied, so she finds something else to stick in her mouth. I drop the cigarette and explode on her tongue. That doesn’t stop her. She sucks harder and my eyes roll back deep in my head.

I can’t help thinking how alien this is. Every time I look at a pretty girl I start thinking about what I want to do to her, and how absolutely strange it would seem to a complete outsider. It seems bizarre. I see a girl and I want to insert a part of my body into one of her orifices and expel a viscous while fluid into her. How fucking weird. I think she’s about done now. She lets my limp cock fall from her mouth and reaches for another smoke. I look down at her and think that it’s almost a shame that she’ll be dead soon.

Below us the perverts are watching some slut getting banged from both directions up on the screen. Her big tits, almost certainly more plastic than adipose tissue, are swinging hard. They’ll be finishing up soon and the theater will clear out for awhile. When that happens I’ll get to work. For now I decide to make conversation.

We talk and I try to remember her name. She’s stretched her body out along the floor, lying on her stomach. I stroke her back for a moment, then pull the cigarette from between my lips and stub it out on her firm ass. She exhales deep, all throaty gravel like some over-sexed starlet in a bad teen movie from the eighties. She’s the kind of girl that enjoys this sort of thing. She’s rolled over and started to pull me to her. Once I’m inside her, with her hips coming up to meet me I wrap my hands around her throat and start to squeeze. She thinks that this is part of the game, and starts to fuck harder- thrusting her hips upward with so much force that she almost throws me off.
I tighten my grip.

It’s called a patichial hemorrhage. Small blood vessels in the eye burst, causing discoloration: bruising. This is how the coroner will know that she was strangled to death. She never has a chance to scream. I finish just after she finishes breathing.

After, I go downstairs to mop up the puddles of semen from the theater floor. Then I return to my damp apartment and watch Dr Zhivago for about the thousandth time. I can almost smell the snow. And that’s Monday.

On Tuesday I eat the warm entrails of Linda Lovelace. I stack what’s left of her in the back of my closet and pull a pile of old mothball smelling sweaters down over her. Then I sit down to drink my morning coffee.

Quetzalcoatl sort of hovers next to my chair. His thin wings beat silently against the dead air, keeping him barely aloft. His slick reptile eyes play over me as I drink the bitter coffee. I reach one hand out to pet his scales, and he slithers through the air a few inches to avoid my touch. The fucker’s the worst pet I ever had. He flaps and slithers across the room and coils himself around the bloody stump leg that’s lying on the counter. His tongue shoots out to smell at the patent leather shoe that is still attached. His head lifts, and cocks to throw the infinite empty vacuum of his eyes against me.

“Fuck off. Stop looking at me like that, you fucking reptile god thing.” He moves from the room and leaves me alone. I finish my coffee and start to get dressed. I’ve got a lot to do today. While I’m getting dressed I switch on the television and push play on the DVD. Dr Zhivago starts up in full color, and I get lost in the blowing snow. At first I’m not watching; just letting it play in the background as I find a mismatched pair of socks without too many holes and figure out how to get my feet into them. Then I decide to stop for a minute and watch. Just for a minute or two. I’ve got too much to do today. The very next thing, I mean almost instantly, the end credits are rolling and I’ve wasted the entire fucking morning watching that goddamn movie again. I’ll have to re-adjust my schedule.

Quetzalcoatl is asleep on the couch. He sleeps most of the time. I guess that being dead, or immortal, or whatever it is that he is, is exhausting. I don’t wake him. Instead I just grab my keys and head out the door. I do, in the long run, exactly what you want me to. It’s not like I have any choice. But then, as Laplace would say: neither do you. Freewill is a myth.

So, anyway, I walk out into the street. The sun is streaming trails of yellow and gold that fuck up my vision. I wish that it was snowing. In my dreams it always snows. Not movie snow. Not like Dr Zhivago. In the movies snow is always white, pristine and sharp. It’s easy to see why. Good, clean white snow can serve a dual purpose: it can be snow and at the same time it can function as metaphor. White is pure; white is virginal; white is good. Real snow, unfortunately, has to pass through the smoke and smoke and dust and filth that our atmosphere is packed with. It comes down gray as a factory moth. You don’t want to catch a flake of that shit on your tongue, let me tell you.

Then I see the girl. I suspect that you were anticipating this moment. After all, my actions must be leading up to something. This has to pay off somewhere, or else the reader will be sadly disappointed. Her hair is red- red hair is hieroglyphic. Somewhere in the childhood that I imagine I had I imprinted on red hair the way some men imprint of large breasts or Asian girls. My need to touch flame hair, to pull it to my face and inhale it, is lapidary. She has narrow hips and her jeans ride low along them, almost hinting at something sweet beneath. I can feel a stirring; two of them, in fact. Something stirs in my pants and something entirely different stirs in my mind. I can already imagine her exsanguinated : pale from blood loss and close to death. Need takes me and I approach her. When I remember this moment my mind will create snow. I’ll see her between the flakes and in the distance I might just hear a train.

Later, after she’s had a drink, we’re sitting on my couch. Quetzalcoatl has been banished to a closet (he’s just too fucking difficult to explain) and I’m hoping like hell that she wont want to wander into the kitchen. That would be bad. My dates really shouldn’t have to deal with the remains of my earlier dates until I’m ready for them to. She has that look in her eyes; you know the one: that glassy, far off haze that suggests acquiescence. You, dear reader, can guess what’s playing on the TV. Women always go for it. They think that Zhivago is sooooo damn romantic. They think it’s cute that a single, straight guy has his own copy of what is, in their estimation, a consummate chick flick. Honestly, I should just skip it. It’s hard for me to concentrate on the work at hand while it plays. In the end, I can’t help myself. I lean in to kiss her, and I can almost smell the snow.

She parts her lips. Her eyes are closed. Mine are wide open. I let my fingers vanish into the depths of her hair. Her hand is on my leg and I wish like hell that it would move farther up. I can’t force it though. These things take time. So I slide one hand down to cup her small breast and move the other one to her neck. She moans a little. I pull back a bit, and suggest with gentle pressure that she lie back. The girl (I can’t remember her name: why does this always happen?) complies easily. I’m fidgeting with the button on her jeans when I feel something against my ankle. It draws my attention away from the task just long enough to look down. It’s Quetzalcoatl. No surprise there. The slithery little fucker is coiling around my ankle and making things generally difficult.

I realize that I’ve been neglecting my duties. The red haired girl is lying very still. To keep things going I press my palm against her crotch and rub a bit. She lifts her hips and makes a sound that is close to pain but far enough away to work for most men. The snake thing constricts. I kick at him, but he won’t go away. I let my hands keep working at her buttons while my brain is busy trying to think of way to get the snake god to leave me the fuck alone so I can kill this bitch.

He will not give up. His vacuous eyes gleam like something out of Lovecraft and, not for the first time, I think that maybe he is here for some specific purpose. I have her pants off now. My fingers are very deep in something very wet. If I can get Quetzal to fuck off, then later I’ll have my finger s very deep in a different kind of wetness. Do not, by the way, call me sick. Remember, this shit is all in your head anyway.

Zhivago is still playing in the background and I catch her watching it. Jesus Christ. I’m trying to fuck this chick and she’s watching a goddamned movie. She can’t even bother to pay attention to the guy that’s fucking her (and don’t forget, if you get your way I’ll be the guy killing her) At first I’m really pissed, but then I notice something. Her eyes gleam a bit- they shine. I think I see a tear beginning to form. It seems subtly clear that the leak is not because of anything I’m doing. It’s because of those flashing images up there on the screen. I lean in close to her and inhale. For just an instant I can almost smell the snow.

I pull my finger out of her and lean my head against her breast. I think that I may be beginning to weep.

Oh, and you mofos should be reading this shit every damned day

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2 Comments

  1. […] I think that I suck, but you suck worse […]

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  2. […] I think that I suck, but you suck worse […]

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