TRASHY NOVELLA SECOND PART

 

In 46 days I will be 30

I am writing a trashy novella in honour of my upcoming show in the Toronto Fringe Festival: The Queen’s Eulogy (it’s a play performed in a pile of trash). Enjoy.

 

Second Part: Sex with a virgin in an alley

All men who look a certain way for real hate everything.

I stare at this guy, blonde, dirty beard, rough attitude, like, I can tell he has a really ROUGH attitude, and I just want him to look at me because he looks just like my ex and I just want to know that more men like this are walking around, sitting in bars, reading trash books, hating everything.

“Can’t you see I’m staring at you?” I ask the side of his head.

He doesn’t look up.

I move stools and now I am sitting beside him because sitting beside someone is a gross thing to do and I just want him to admit that he likes gross things.

“Can’t you see I’m staring at you, I mean can’t you feel it, can’t you feel me staring at you and aren’t you going to at least look up to see who I am, that’s fucking weird, I’m just saying, that’s fucking weird if you don’t look up to at least acknowledge who I am–”

“What if I never look up.” He’s smiling.

Men like this. They smile. But they hate everything. But they smile.

“Well, if you never look up…I will never make out with you.”

He laughs.

“It’s true. That’s so true. It’s really true. How can I make out with you if you never look up?”

He keeps reading.

I whisper in his ear, “Do you drive a really fast car?”

He looks up, “What?” He looks right at me, right at my face.

“Hi.”

“Oh, damn it,” he says it while laughing. I have charmed him with creepy actions.

“Maybe put your book away, stud,”

He closes his book. While smiling. Men like this do everything while smiling.

“Do we make out now?” He asks while staring at the bar.

I can never tell if men are serious. It is possible that no man in the world has ever taken me seriously. It is also possible that no man in the world has ever taken any woman seriously ever. I like how he can’t look at me. 

“Not in front of the bartender.”

The bartender is an old man. I have a rule about making out with or in front of an old man.

“Do I buy you a drink?”

“I have a drink.”

“Another?”

“I don’t want to drink with you. I just want to show you my boobs and watch you turn red.”

He laughs.

“I am so serious.” I have to tell him because he clearly doesn’t take me seriously.

“Follow me home.”

“Home?”

“I want you to follow me home and when we get there I want you to yell SHOW ME YOUR BOOBS.”

“Ok.”

“Pay my bill.” I slide off the stool. I carry nothing with me because I brought nothing with me because my boobs pay for all my drinks.

I walk out the door.

I do not look behind me.

I walk around the city, slowly, slinking, for an hour. I stop, several times, for no reason, just to look at things. I imagine he has no idea what to do with the stalling time and perhaps it’s just time for him to stand around, hating himself.

I get tired and sit on a step that I have never seen before in my life.

He sits beside me. He is sweating.

I pat his head with my fingers. I just feel like touching the sweat and it’s not supposed to be sexy but it ends up being pretty sexy especially since he says, “I needed that.”

“I needed it too.” I don’t know what I’m saying.

“Show me your boobs.”

“You’re supposed to be yelling.”

He leans in and whispers, “Show me. Your boobs.”

I look at his head, just with my eyes. He moves his head back just a bit so that our eyes make contact. He brushes his lips against mine.

Of all the blonde bearded men in the city, and there are many, I maybe am kissing the most desperate one. He kisses like a man who just remembered Kissing.

“I’m looking right at you.”

“Finally,” I say.

He presses his lips against mine. He breathes audibly while kissing which is gross but movie-like so I get it. His tongue pushes my mouth open and it flicks, back and forth against my cheeks like my cheeks are a set of drums. And he is the drummer.

He pulls back. Inhales. Smacks his lips together.

He is looking at me, parted mouth and a smile.

“Should we go upstairs?”

“What? I don’t live here.”

“Where do you live?”

“I’m not a ridiculous person, I’m not going to actually tell you where I live.”

He laughs, “Are you sure you’re not a ridiculous person?”

“What the fuck is your name?”

He brushes my hair away from my eyes but my hair is really curly so it just goes right back to where it was before he tried to fix me.

He looks at the ground and, with hands bigger than you might expect from a blonde boy with a thinning beard, fingers the size of dicks, they make me blush and swallow, he says, “Um. I’m Nate.”

“Yeah. You look like a Nate.”

He stares at me.

“I have a name but unless you ask, I’m not ever gonna tell you.”

I’m not wearing a bra because it was too much effort to walk upstairs and get a bra just to go down the street to a pub and now I can feel my boobs hating me for making them look bad.

“Ok, what’s your name.”

I make up a name because I somehow decide it will protect me in case he is a murderer, “Joanna. Jo.”

“Jo the girl.”

“Nate the guy. Best friends. Conquer the world. Set fire to pigeons. Rescue children from thirsty countries. Organize parties for things that matter.”

“Set fire to pigeons.”

“Yeah Nate.”

I take his hand. I put it on my boob. He stares at me.

“This feels so good.”

The street stares at us but for sure no one cares because everyone only cares about themselves.

I do not miss the internet.

I take his hand out of my shirt.

“I don’t have a phone.” I tell him. “And I don’t want you to know where I live. But let’s have sex in this alley.”

I stand up and walk into the alley.

Nate is right behind me.

I lean up against the wall.

He leans in, we are kissing, his hands meet my boobs which feels amazing because his hands are gigantic and so are my boobs and I have never ever met a man who matched hand-to-boob with me this well.

I unbutton his pants.

“I won’t blow you. But I will turn around.”

I unbutton my own pants and I turn around.

“Are you a virgin, Jake?”

“What?”

“Tell me you’re a virgin, Jake.”

“Is that, does that turn you on?”

“Tell me you’re a virgin.”

“I’m a virgin.”

“How does my pussy feel?”

“It feels fucking good because I’m a fucking virgin.”

“You’re not a virgin anymore.”

“I’m not a virgin anymore.”

“Fuck me, virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin anymore.”

“Harder, virgin.:

“I’m not a virgin anymore!”

His hands move from my waist, up my sweaty tits, he grips and he grips and he grabs with everything he has, grunting with stale kissing breath right into my fucking ear.

“VIRGIN”

Smashing me against the wall, he yells “I’M A FUCKING VIRGIN”

I laugh a little. There is a sweaty man smashed against me and I am laughing and he is a virgin.

“Your hands feel good.”

“Do you think everyone heard us?”

“Yeah.I do, Jake. Can you ilft your penis away–”

“Oh, sorry? Sorry.” He pulls out.

We button our shit up.

It is the beginning of the night. 

 

Come back tomorrow for a new part!

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Thank you for coming here. Your readership is everything.

There is also still time to conribute to my Fringe Show. If you like my writing and you can’t make it to the show, our fundraiser is a great way to show your support.  Thanks so much!

Peace peace calm peace,

-R