Do You Miss Me When You’re Warm?

February 22, 2011 § Leave a comment


I drink single malt scotch, aged in casks fit for motherfucking kings. The first time I touched your face your goddam heart stopped. You told me so two years later. You said the only other woman who’d done that to you was your fourth grade teacher. I don’t take good care of myself, though, so you figured we wouldn’t pan out. Also, my bed gets a lot of dirt in it from me walking around in bare feet and never sweeping my floors. You can’t deal with that.

It’s not that I refuse to sweep or wear slippers or shoes. I just forget. I get absent minded. I don’t know, pal, I suppose when you’re trying to build a fucking empire and keep up with a bottle a day habit, the dirt doesn’t matter as much. By the time I climb into my bed I’m usually too far gone to even notice. I want so badly to be in love right now.

I’ve been tricking myself into falling on a weekly basis, and it’s getting to be hard on my liver. This latest lead me straight into a binge so potent that my throat is bleeding from puking so hard. It was an absurd moment, clutching the side of an SUV in Hollywood, watching bright yellow streams shoot out of my throat like I was super-soaking the sidewalk. There were some whores out there, standing near and looking bored.

Colder nights like that one don’t bring in as many customers as you’d imagine. I know the colder nights are the ones that fuck me right off when I’m all alone. But I guess men don’t go out seeking paid company on nights like those. Nope, those are the nights they’re texting me, saying they miss me, asking if I’ll see them. You’re a different story, because you live far away, we’re just friends, and you’re always cold. The rest of them text me in the middle of the night. You’re the only one who ever texts me in the afternoon, usually because you’ve just seen something you think I’d want to know exists.

Last night you and I made out in my dirty bed. You pulled me into pleasing positions to you, using your legs to knock my knees open. You held my back at an arch by grabbing a fistful of my hair as I laid on my belly. You pulled my head up and I knew we wouldn’t fuck. You’d just hold me there and make me wonder if I’ll ever be the kind of woman who wears slippers.

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