𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

01. can you cum over?

O N E
can you cum over?

I make awful decisions.

Every choice, opportunity, or decision given to me, I pick the worst option. I don't entirely mean to. It just happens, and it all blows up in my face.

Laying next to me, on a lumpy, painfully uncomfortable mattress, is quite possibly the worst decision I have ever made. And continue to make. Because this is far from the first time I've made this awful, awful decision.

My chest rises and falls in rapid succession, and my body is sweaty. My mind is full of so much. The hot, humid night is not helping anything.

Somehow, the prevailing thought is the pain in my ribcage. It's not a stitch, no, it's a mattress coil, that worked its way through the mattress and it no trying to pop my lung.

I just need to come back down to Earth, sort my head out, and then get up and out of this Godforsaken house. Ten seconds, then I'll give up.

10.

9.

8.

7.

Why do I do this to myself? I do shit like this way too often.

6.

5.

God, what would happen if anyone found out? Blowing up in my face would be an understatement of the atrocities that would occur.

4.

Fuck the countdown. Ten seconds is too long. I don't need to waste ten seconds, I need to get out as soon as possible. I needed to have left before the door opened.

I sit up, escaping the numerous lumps and the coil that was slowly working its way through my skin.

Why, why, why? Do I not have any self-preservation skills?

I can see him, out of the corner of my eye. A few tendrils of his actually dirty, dirty blond hair are stuck to his forehead. And his blue iris' pop due to the bloodshot whites of his eyes. Courtesy of the blunt we shared—in silence, of course. It was passed between us quickly, both of us knowing the importance of getting to the point of our midnight meetings as fast as possible.

At this point, it's a business transaction. It's mutually beneficial.

I come over, we usually get intoxicated in some way or another, we get to the point, and then I leave.

I take a few seconds to regulate my heart rate, my head having got woozy from the elevation change. I slow my breathing, trying to get back to a point where no one would know. The second I feel like I'm back on the ground, I grab my clothes: my underwear, my shorts, my bra and my shirt. Putting them on in record time.

I should've just counted down from three. I wasted four seconds. Those could make the difference.

"Pass me my beer?" His voice fills the relative silence of a summer night in The Cut. Which is louder than in Figure Eight, which gets pretty silent. Just the yapping of an over-priced designer dog. My fingers pull at the freshly done up bow, making sure it won't just fall off, then grab the neck of his beer bottle, and show it in his direction. "Thanks, sweet cheeks." He winks.

"Frankie," I state, putting my worse-for-wear trainers on. "My name is Frankie. Or, better yet, call me Francesca."

"But that's not your name, Mabel." He grins, still laying against the headboard. Fuck him. I hope he chokes on the stale beer. I should've spat in the bottle.