Hinky corn! I open the door and there he is, looking like a blow-fried stray. What does he have on his mind? It’s just inner debris slamming inside his forehead sloshed down to chum by medications last gleamings
You don’t really want to know what goes on behind those bedroom eyes anyway: a lot like a shaky pornographic blur pulped into something less palatable. He hides his mania as best he can, but the more perceptive back away.
He’s a magnet for hungry ghosts, thirsty bitches and other dullards hoping to improve their shine by passing through his reflection. He takes it in stride. There’s more where that came from, because he’ll live forever. He lives in every hot mistake he makes. His DNA spreads far and why. He lives in the eyes and mouths of all the old pederasts in his home town. They’d slit their turkey gobblers for an hour of his time. He’d pick them clean, if that were his proclivity.
But it’s not. At least not the majority of the time.
He’s here for apache, to filter the screaming feedback arcing his brain. He’s tried it all in his short life but the impulses grow wilder every year. By golly, he’s desperate for relief. He stands here, sweating, flushed and totally suckable. He turns out his pockets with a cartoonish frown… yet he needs. I have needs too… and this one needs to learn the value of hard work. Life’s too easy for the beautiful, I think as I measure out a quantity. I want to control his body. I want to see with his eyes. Those eyes that can remove thoughts, hopes, money and clothing with just a glance. But what I really want is to tell him none of it’s worth it.
By crackie! I want to kill him with my bitterness; wipe out his vitality, youth and beauty. Eradicate the promise, that I once had but no longer exists for me. I want him to know how it feels.
I want him to kill me with his strength, endurance and resilience that has not yet taken leave. I want him to crush my insecurity, my failing body and my flagging reserves. I want him to take his smooth hands and wrap them around my scarred, hanging throat. I want to feel him on top of me crushing out the last of my deluded fantasies.
I place the powder in a glittery baggy, shake it in front of him, like it’s a cat toy. He swipes at it, just like a cat; I pull it behind my back. He’s going to have to pay for this some way. Some how. To my delight. The look in my eyes tells him this. He smirks. Even in submission he’s smug.