𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 ➀

3 DISTORTION

I snap out of my internal thoughts of screwing Monica all over the place the moment her door swings open. "Oh hey, Sean." Her softly curled hair falls into her face as she smiles that beautiful smile of hers. She's got the most perfect fucking mouth.

The things that I would do to that mouth. All of the ways I would make her scream, moan, shout and gag on my... Fuck, I need to get my shit together.

I run my hand through my hair as I look over her body. "Hey," is all I mutter out like a sex crazed addict trying to hide his vice. Oh wait, that's because I am.

She doesn't seem to pay attention to that though but she does look down at the massive bottle in my hands. "All alone this evening?"

Why? Do you want to come in and fuck me?

I cough at the internal thought and instead of that I answer with a simple, "yup." Yes, I am drinking most likely the entirety of this bottle's contents by myself. That, as well as the fuck-ton of nippers I managed to hijack from the liquor store right underneath Mr. Shit-Eating-Grin's nose.

We stand there for a moment just staring at each other. It's one of the few times in my life I've ever been quiet. My mouth is so big and gets me in trouble even with the best intentions. Now it's time to laugh because ha ha my intentions are never good.

Monica is looking over me like most women do. She's got that nervous, almost shy look as she studies me quietly. It's a look that tempts me to tell her to stay here. Stay with me and forget about that fucking job of hers because I want to pleasure her until she can't walk straight.

"Well, I'm off. I'll see you later, Sean." She tucks her long dark waves behind her ears and gives me that signature puppy look.

Monica is the only woman I have ever met to make innocence look attractive in my eyes. I prefer to live inside of the darkness and I like my women thoroughly coated in it. I usually like them nearly as fucked in the head as myself. Finding someone as completely distorted as me is a feat though.

Usually, when I find someone as damaged as me that means no strings attached. Just give me a quick fuck. Give me some bomb head to which I may or may not reciprocate. Then, I'm out. That's fucking it. It may be dirty but it's oh so fucking simple. No complications. No hearts left in tatters on the floor. But who am I kidding? I don't even have a fucking heart.

"See you around." I nod before watching her strut her perfect plump round ass down the desolate hallway. The hallway has never looked as fuckable as it does right now.

I want to have her slammed up against the wall, with her pants around her ankles, dripping her wet essence down to her fucking knees with my mouth planted on her swollen pink lips...

Fucking, hell. I need to get my ass and my raging hard on into the god damn apartment. I unlock the door and the stale stench of alcohol permeates through the air. Jesus H. Christ.  Does every fucking place I go have to smell horrid today?

I walk to the kitchen and place the handle and pack of smokes on the counter. Fishing through my pockets I pull out my loot from my liquor store excursion. Let's count, 1,2... 10 nippers I was able to snatch up. Guess who's getting fucked up tonight. Yup, that's right, this guy.

My hands begin to shake slightly before I reach for them. This is something that has happened to me over time. Now, every time I reach for my first drink, that first blissful sip, tremors of anticipation course throughout my body. I open five of them and without a second thought I toss them all back one right after another. The burn feels like liquid love slipping down my esophagus into the hollow pit of my soul.

I reach into the cabinet, grab myself a glass, and pour myself a hearty tumbler full of whiskey. Just whiskey. No ice. No mixer. Just give it to me straight.

Fuck, I have to take a piss.

After relieving myself in the bathroom I wash my hands. It always surprises me how many men don't wash their fucking hands after taking a piss. I may be an asshole but at least I'm not that much of a disgusting pig.

I splash water on my face and dry it with a towel. Looking in the mirror I see the face that makes women's thighs tremble just with a single look. Honestly, I couldn't blame them. I was a fuckable looking guy.

My short, pitch-black hair always has that signature run-your-hands-threw-it-constantly, just-been-fucked look about it. Probably because I'm a fucking man whore, but I digress. My eyes are blazing green orbs with cat like yellow flecks inside them. Where I got the color from I'll never fucking know. My mother's eyes are brown and my fathers are blue. It's just like my skin tone. Where the fuck did that come from? I have olive skin. I tan easily while both of my parents don't. I swear my mom had been fucking the mailman. I'm most likely the bastard child of the United States Postal Service.

At least if I am a bastard child I'm a hot bastard child. The mailman must've been tall too with a muscular build because where I got my figure from is also an anomaly. I have no other siblings to compare myself to since my older brother died during childbirth. Guess I'm lucky to be alive.

I put both of my hands on the sink and study the ink that swirls up my right arm. If you know me, which no one will ever get to know me in such a manner, you'd know each and every one of these black designs is laced with my own morbidity. I have a full sleeve that extends to my chest which makes most women cream their panties at the sight of it.

People getting off on my pain, ha. But this is my fucking existence. Literally. Pain for pleasure, as they say.

I push myself off the bathroom counter not even feeling a slight buzz. I'm not really feeling much of anything at all. I'm the epitome of emotionally unavailable. Cheers! I think to myself as I go to the kitchen and have the last five nippers in celebration of my detachment disorder.

The liquor goes down smoother than it had previously, leaving a slight burn in my throat. I grab my pack of cigarettes, a lighter, my nearly full tumbler glass of whiskey, and head outside. I could smoke in my apartment if I wanted to but No. Fucking. Thank You. I hate the smell of stale cigarettes in a home because it reminds me of my rotten childhood.

Cringe. Yeah, let's not fucking go there.

I drink from my glass in gulps as I make my way out of the building. Sitting on the steps I set my almost empty glass to my side and light my cigarette. I inhale deeply and wait a few moments before taking several long drags.

Ahh, there it is, the lovely fog.

I welcome the subtle haze as it slowly creeps inside of my overactive skull. Rubbing my jaw in a rough fashion I feel the amount of stubble there. It's not too much. It's just enough to leave most women salivating. My lips start to tingle slightly as I bring the glass back up, finishing the contents inside.

I lean forward onto my knees as I look around feeling my eyes just a touch heavier than they were about an hour ago. It wasn't enough though. It would never be enough when there was always more to consume. I begin to get up, ready to go put Denzel Washington's performance in Flight to shame, when I hear a series of strangled cries from the parking lot.

What the fuck is that all about?

I flick my cigarette away and blow the last huff of smoke out of my lungs before jogging down the stairs. I look around the parking lot to see where the noise is coming from when I see a crying Monica leaning against her car. She looks up at me with her makeup smearing down her cheeks. Even a crying mess, Monica is still so fucking beautiful.

"Monica?" Yes, you dumb fuck, that's her name. I have no warning before she launches herself into my arms and grips onto me for dear life.

Fuck my life...