By Any Other Name
February 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
“Why are these dudes always lousy to you, Bukowski?”, he’d asked.
“It’s because I’m a fucking drunk, dear. Which brings me to wondering why you’re out of wine and how we can fix that.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he says in the liquor store as I watch these high school girls trying to look old enough to buy booze. I’ll be imagining I’m one of those girls the next time I get fucked, young and drunk on zima while some oily skinned fuckface shoves his throbber into my inexperienced pussy “Your goddam screen name isn’t Boobed_Ghandi. Bu-kow-ski! Bukowski!” He really emphasizes the name, saying it slowly like he’s talking to a migrant worker. “You’re going to drink, swear, and fuck too much, and you have no qualms about it.”
He’s wrong, though. I have as many qualms as anyone else. I’ve just no reason to behave at the moment, and three weeks of sex with you isn’t going to tame the shrew. Your cock is lovely, but the gods of good sex have been smiling on me recently, so unless you want to settle down and whisk me away to a farmhouse, I’m content with what I’ve got going on.
I dyed my hair red yesterday. You told me once, when I wasn’t drunk, that you dig red heads. Maybe I don’t remember what you said to me the night you showed up at 2 a.m. because you knew I was drunk and you figured if you didn’t show up, I’d text my way down the list until I found someone to take your place, but I remember shit like how many sweet n lows you like, your mother’s birthday, and how you feel about ginger girls. Hopefully the sheen from the orange complimenting my eyes, enough blue shirts and short skirts, and feeling how unbelievably wet I get when you touch me will distract you from the glass in my hand.