Not to be Denied

282 26 20

The blanket is wet

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The blanket is wet. Like, really wet. With vomit.

I groan as I step out of the bathroom and survey the wreckage. My love god (who may be named Larry?) is still passed out.

Larry seemed like a good idea last night, after my fourth or fifth vodka, with benzedrine roaring down my arteries and my hands still jittery with adrenaline. I was coming off the buzz of my first public spanking. My first night performing at the Dead Sexy Cabaret. They were doing gore-lesque — or horror burlesque. I played a unicorn, thus the horn.

In the skit, I was captured and tortured by a gang of evil dryads. Very intense. My ass was stinging and endorphins were floating me toward the ceiling. I felt so good, so used, so nice. That's when my torturer, Hannah Blazes, decided to take me out to celebrate. And celebrate we did.

Thus Larry.

Granted, Larry's totally my type: tatted and dirty and hairy in all the wrong places. He cussed like a sailor and matched me swig for swig. Fun guy. Super funny. Said he was in town visiting his brother. So sure, it seemed like a great idea to follow his NissanZ out to this sketchy motel in East Austin.

But now, in the aching scrutiny of daylight, I wonder, who is this man, Larry? What do I know about him? Is his name even Larry? And of course there's the biggest question: Is he even alive anymore? He hasn't stirred, but I don't have the nerve to check. I don't want to wake him. I don't want to deal with him and, more selfishly, I don't want to deal with the consequences of our vandalism spree. Now that the vodka's wearing off, I'm starting to give a fuck about what might happen once motel management gets involved, so I'd rather just slide out the door and hope Larry doesn't remember ever meeting me. I don't remember giving him my last name. Or even my real first name. I think I went by my stage name, Dynamite Styx. So if Larry really is in town visiting his brother, and if I can manage to get outside without waking him, I may just avoid this awkwardness completely

Shitty? Yes, it is. But, really. Survival of the fittest ... and first awake. Early bird and all that shit.

Good thing is, I don't have that many clothes to gather. I find my T-shirt at the foot of the bed and nude thong next to the tv, but I can't find my skirt. Wouldn't that be awkward if I couldn't find it? Talk about a walk of shame! Parading into the daylight half dressed and hung over ... though, interestingly, the hangover seems to be clearing up pretty quickly. The pounding in my head is starting to subside and it no longer feels like I'm creating ocean swells in my belly every time I change directions. This isn't typical. Normally when I get as drunk as I was last night, I'm feeling pincers in my brain until dinner.

Dodged the bullet, I think, and I have no idea how wrong I really am ... and on how many levels. But I'll be finding out soon enough.

My stomach grumbles as I finally find my skirt under the pile of pillows we tossed off the bed (and drew a penis on). Apparently the restorative powers zapping my hangover do not nullify hunger, because suddenly I'm ravenous. I feel like I have an empty pit in my belly that must be filled, cannot be denied.

I want a big plate of crunchy tacos.

I want a cheeseburger, extra fries on the side.

I want a milkshake and pepperoni pizza and, yeah, bratwurst.

I want cake ... birthday cake ...

I want pasta, so much pasta! Spaghetti and lasagna and fettucini alfredo.

And after that, I want a cigarette. I haven't smoked in five years, but suddenly the urge to light up is nearly overwhelming. My jaw feels tight and I can taste the charred tobacco on my tongue ...

I want I want I want I want

to fill fill fill fill fill

and drink. I want a drink. I can't tell if I'm hungry, exactly, or just really thirsty. My cotton mouth is wicked. My tongue feels like it's made of velcro. It's sticking to the roof of my mouth. But I don't want water. Oh no. Not at all. Water doesn't even sound appealing. I want a beer, a nice, dark beer. Or no, maybe bourbon, or wine. A rich merlot. Or, no, something a bit more complex, heavier ... tangier ...

I can't put my finger on exactly what it is I want, but whatever it is, I'm craving it hardcore. My craving is so intense, in fact, that it's almost like I'm feeling horny. Hell, I am horny, I notice as I slide my skirt over my hips. Part of me is very seriously tempted to hop back in bed, wake Larry, and fuck him ragged. Straddle him and slide him inside and use him, ride him, lean forward and nuzzle his neck, bite his neck ...

No. I can't let that happen. I have no desire to get arrested for vandalism, so I push off my cravings and head for the door. I don't even bother with finding my shoes. I'll brave the parking lot barefoot.

I also decide it would be prudent to skip a second trip to the bathroom, even though my bladder feels like a overmatched boxer regretting its life choices. "Just hold on another round," I mouth to it as I slowly turn the knob. Just my luck, the knob sticks. Not surprising, considering the dilapidated state of the motel, but still unfortunate, because when I apply more pressure, the latch jolts loose with a loud pop.

I freeze and glance at Larry. Still out cold.
Man, I really took it out of the poor guy, I think as I pull the door open and then ease it shut again behind me. The latch pops another time as I'm closing the door, but this time, I'm less worried about the noise. I'm nearly to freedom! Victory! Retreat! And all that. I turn toward the parking lot, ready to bolt for Sweet Cherry Ray, when the sunlight hits me. It's like a wall of pure, venomous hatred. I blink and shield my eyes and stagger into a molten soup.

Ugh. It's like a vicious attack. I'm getting brutalized as I swim through all that light toward my sanctuary. The interior of my vintage red Eldorado. Sweet Cherry Ray. She's a convertible, but I don't think I'll be putting the top down. Not with the sun beating down on me like this.

Wish I had my sunglasses, I think as I pull under canopy outside the motel lobby and, on an impulse, stop the car. Protected by sweet, blessed shade, I hustle inside to the complimentary breakfast buffet. Even though it's lunchtime, two chubby kids are standing impatiently by the waffle maker when I reach past them and grab the plastic tub of Cocoa Puffs. To hold me over until I can get some real food. I don't even bother pouring it into a bowl, just carry the tub past the bored attendant and out to the idling car. As I'm climbing in, I notice there's a stain down the front of my shirt. Looks like I spilled something on myself last night. Spray paint? No, can't be. Not bright enough. This is darker and really soaked into the fabric. Maybe a cranberry vodka? I was gulping those down all night. Who knows.

Maybe Hannah will remember.

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