A friend of mine asked me a few months ago where I get my inspiration. If it’s fact, fiction or whatever. Truth is it’s a little bit of everything, everyone and a product of my imagination. And for us lucky ones, life imitates art.
People always asked after the perfume I wore, describing in a multitude of ways. Sweet and bitter… strong and mellow. Earthy and full of sky. Offering the same definition everytime. “It’s the scent of the water of life”. I think it was the Scottish that described whiskey in that sense.
We had known each other for years. Run into each other around town, passing each other in the aisles of stores. Exchanging three minute conversations. There was something about the depth of his voice, the way he looked at things, at people – and sometimes at people as things. It would almost make me freeze, the way a startled animal freezes before bolting into the woods.
I walked into the bar that night. A bit of a habit for me, really. People said a sign of an alcoholic was their tendency to drink alone. Trying to allay that a bit, I’d bring my book along to the pub. Settling back into my chair, waiting for my beer to arrive, I saw him at the bar. He had his back to me, his face turned to the side, so I could see his profile. Five o’clock shadow that had seen the next morning on his face, he was looking out the window.
“Cute one, isn’t he?” The waitress set my beer down in front of me. “He’s been in here a couple hours, now. Ordering whiskey straight up. We’ve been taking bets in back as to when exactly he’ll fall off that barstool.”
I was in here quite often and very used to making small-talk with the waitstaff, flirting with the cute ones. This time I only mumbled my assent, having found myself frozen again. She grinned, and I handed her two dollars as a tip. “Hey sweetie, you know you don’t have to do that. Tell you what, I’ll put you down for 10:15 – a bit of a longshot, as I don’t think he has 10 more minutes left in him, let alone another hour.” She winked, and wandered towards the back.
I tried reading my book. Something about a guy just out of college, wandering across the country. I’m surprised I remember even that. I ordered myself a couple more rounds, all the time staring at the back of his neck. There is something about the muscles in a man’s neck. In the way they stretch and bunch seeming never to relax. I watched him order shot after shot – always neat, no ice to temper the burn of the amber liquid, drinking them all the same way. He would savor the first few sips, eyeing the glass, swishing the liquid around. Reaching the halfway point, he would jerk the glass up, suddenly, throwing his head back and emptying it.
He stood up, shoving the stool out behind him. He looked out across the room, and my eyes reflexively followed. The clock. 10:15. His hands flexed, closing on the glass, crushing it and sending it to the floor in shards. His fist kept tightening, around the remnants and I could see a trail of blood run down his arm and drip onto the floor.
The manager was heading towards him, motioning for a staff member to make a phone call. I got up abruptly, and headed for him. “Slane, are you alright?” Moving towards him, my hand reached for his arm. He looked at me, and I stopped. His eyes tried to focus. “I… know you”.
I grabbed napkins off the bar and reached for his arm. The manager had made it over by this time, and put his hand on the small of my back. “Darling, go sit down”
“No, it’s okay” I protested. “I know him; I’ll take care of it”. The manager continued to make noises of disapproval as I cradled Slane’s arm, murmuring encouragement for him to unclench his fist, using my fingernails to pick out the larger pieces of glass so I could use the napkins to put pressure on the gashes in his palm.
“My credit card is on the table. Use it to cover the tabs.” I led Slane to the door. He accompanied me silently, and I heard the waitstaff whispering their disapproval behind me. Walking across the parking lot, to my car, rummaging in my pocket for my keys and unlocking the passenger door. I guided him into the seat, and pressed his left hand onto his right, encouraging him to keep pressure on the wound.
I drove to my apartment, nervously switching stations. He was looking out the window again, nodding to the rhythm of whatever came on the radio. I parked, and reversed the procedure, taking him out of the car and into my place.
Leaving him leaned up against the bathroom counter, I rummaged through the cabinets. I couldn’t find anything resembling an antiseptic, so I went into the kitchen and opened my freezer. The only bottle sitting there, taunting me, was a bottle of Jameson. With a curse, I pulled it out of the freezer.
Making him hold his hand out, I pulled each of the smaller pieces of glass from his palm with tweezers. Dropping them into the sink, each sounding like crystal as they tumbled down the drain. I held his palm up to the light and could see nothing glistening, so I dropped his hand and twisted off the top of the bottle.
Poured it over his palm, I heard his breath catch. I looked up, and saw his eyes clear. “Bitch” he said, grinning. “Now is that any way to greet an old friend?” I asked. He had moved his hand slightly and I could see something start to shine. I grabbed for his palm, grasped the twinkling with the tweezers, and pulled.
This time he jerked. And with the grip I had on his forearm, he pulled me with him. I fell into the length of his body, my arm pulled far forward, my neck twisted as I tried to follow it. I heard him chuckle.
I pushed myself off of him, backing up until I hit the wall. He closed his eyes, grinned, and grabbed the bottle next to him. Raising it to his lips, I watched his throat bob as he swallowed. He slammed it back down, the contents noticeably lower than before. “So, how have you been?”
I stared at him, his palm still dripping blood onto my tile. Edges of red began to creep into my vision as I stalked out of the room, into the kitchen, grabbing two shot glasses and returning. Set them on the counter, pouring a measure into each one. I handed him the glass, making sure I’d position it so he’d grab it in his wounded hand. My eyes blazed and I lifted the shot glass to my lips, swallowing the contents.
“Obviously better than you. What the hell are you doing?”
His face softened a little. “You have no idea, do you?”
He grabbed the bottle and headed for my living room. I took the time to lean back against the wall, to breathe again and collect my thoughts. Pushing myself off, I headed into the room and settled my into the chair adjacent to where he was.
He took slugs off the bottle each time he came to a particularly tormenting section of his story. Further and further it came, until I started to see his arms flex again, the way they had earlier in the bar. “Don’t” I said, and laid my hand on his forearm. Taking the bottle from him, I retrieved the glasses. Setting them down in front of me, I tried to pour us both a drink and found it empty. I sighed and got up to retrieve my reserve bottle from under the sink. Returning, I filled them both to the brim.
Handed his back and picking my own up. I raised it, toasting silently. Doing my best impression of him earlier, I threw my head back in an attempt to empty the glass. My mouth rebelled, being unable to hold so much liquid, and the remainder of the drink trickled along the front of my neck, down into my chest.
His eyes, flared then. He reached out his hand, still the wounded one, and caught the droplets of whiskey on his fingertip. He drew back and his tongue shot out to catch it. His eyes clouded again, and he knocked me backwards.
He was over me, on me, his mouth chewing down the line of my neck. His left hand grasped my hair, pulling it up and away from him. He was so heavy on me, his entire body pressing down like he intended to drive me through the floor, into the ground.
Almost as abruptly, the pressure released. He had sat back on his knees and was staring down at my shirt. His hands came forward, undoing the buttons on my shirt. I reached up to move his arms as they undid those last button. “No” he said, grinning. And again, “No” as he passed his fingers over my lips. His hands moved along my sides, tracing a path down as my skin rippled into goosebumps. He slipped through the maze of my raised skin, sliding under the clasp of my bra and jerking me upright. I gasped for air, surprised, trying to explain the mechanics of it. I heard him chuckle again, his fingers twisting releasing my bra, and me, back to the floor.
Again, he was hovering over me, casting a shadow down my body. I don’t know how he undid my jeans, I just felt them slide down my legs. He smiled, pleased. Reaching for the bottle, I watched his hands wrap around it. I tried protesting but before I could, he raised it over me, upending it. The words couldn’t leave my mouth, it hit. The cold clinical feeling of alcohol on skin, the immediate evaporation of heat. And then his mouth was on me, on the rounded mound of my breasts, warmth replacing the cold before I could register it.
I had startled upright a little, and felt the path of the liquid run rivulets down my body. He followed their course, starting with my nipples, teeth closing in, pinching. He moved, his lips suckling down my sternum, hands on my waist, holding me still, drinking his fill. He nibbled along my hips, and I raised my hands to cradle his head as he moved farther down, between my legs.
The whiskey’s effect had settled in, and I could its warmth travel down from my belly, settling in as he breathed over my clit. Bottle still at hand, he poured the last remaining drops on my cunt and set to lap it up. Cursing yet again, all the strength went out of my arms and I dropped back, head lolling as I writhed underneath him. Devouring me alive, the only thought that made it through my head before I gave in, drowning under the waves.
He climbed back up my body with his mouth. Bit by bite, up my torso, until he was at my neck, arms coiled by my side, and they sprung upwards, raising himself over me, his legs nudging apart my thighs so he could settle himself between them. My thighs flexed involuntarily, pushing the head of his cock inside me. He caught his breath above me, and plunged.
In that moment, above his head I could see the stars. Below me, crushed thistle, the scent of grass and heather overwhelming. My arms reached up and out, grabbing on to anything within my reach, tugging at the rough wool I found as he pumped inside of me. My body took over, and I felt my hips matching his, fighting at each other, as if our bodies were weapons, as if there was something more that was wanted, as if we were struggling for every stroke, that we couldn’t give up the reality. I came to my crest, and smiled wickedly. I used my leverage to pull him out, and within the time that he was confused, I used it to my advantage, and flipped him over.
And we were back, on my living room floor, the beige carpet under him, his body slick with sweat, and me, this time, between his legs. I let my breasts fall, weighty on his legs, drawing up, and over his cock, feeling it twitch beneath me. I lowered myself back down, mouth coming to breathe on him. I inhaled the smell of sex, the smell of desire and let my lips slip over his cock, but not so far, not yet.
He tried to say a name, any name, of his mother, his lover or his god when I brought him full into my mouth. I felt him come alive under my tongue, veins and arteries pulsing, wanting. In and out I brought him, again and again. I found the bundle of nerves, and lapped at it with my tongue. He went rigid above me, and I could feel him struggling not to move, struggling to hold me there. I wouldn’t let him. I rode the waves of his hips, interrupting the rhythm he fought so hard to keep, getting one more stroke, one more darting of my tongue. It was my turn now, as I held his hips, riding and fighting the rhythm he tried so hard to control. My mouth worked frantically, insistent that I was in control.
This time, with more viciousness, our positions were reversed. He reached under my arms lifting me up. It was only out of self preservation that I wrapped my legs around him, and by that motion, slid myself back on him. He faltered then, reaching for the wall, but then with renewed effort, headed for the bedroom and a softer landing place.
I would be glad for that softer landing, later, when he drove me into my bed with rougher effort. I tried to protest with my hands running over his chest, down his sides, to his hips, scratching my nails up his pelvis. He wasn’t having any of it, and I’d bear the bruises for weeks afterwards, the violence in which he grabbed my arms and pulled them over me. I added to those same bruises, the only control I had, to biting my inner arm, and made such a quiet sound that he stared down at me. Once he saw my satisfaction, he renewed his own, trying to push through my womb, into my core. With a roar of triumph, he let go, pouring himself into me.
It was quiet then. The both of us, lying there, our breath ragged. With the last bit of energy I had, I let my leg over his and my arm over his chest. I had almost given up to sleep when I heard him murmur… “..And now you know”.
Waking up the next morning, twisted in sticky sheets. It took me more than a minute to get my bearings. I was alone in my room, sunlight streaming through my windows. Stretching and twisting, testing the soreness in my muscles, the strength left in my body. Easing myself out of the bed, sheet trailing behind me. I looked in the mirror, lifted my hands to my neck, over my collarbones, dipping beneath the sheets, following the bruises.
I shook off the night before, reached for the aspirin, and stepped into the shower. When I got out, I found myself dressed, standing in the middle of the living room, holding a brief sense of longing. I dipped my fingers into the remnants at the bottom of the shot glass, dabbed behind my ears, my wrist, and my neck. Smiling slightly, I headed out the door.