03 – Donald Hughes
I never leave my apartment anymore – outside of the weekly Heather visit and the blue-moon occasion I drive to Beverly Hills for no reason and usually end up outside Sonya’s building like some pathetic stalker-type…
I have everything delivered now… that’s the way to go. Food, booze, cigarettes, drugs… even pussy – it’s all a phone call away.
I know I had a hooker come by the other night – I think maybe Monday – and on the way I asked her to bring towels, toilet paper, and three packs of Lucy Strike. I offered an extra hundred. She thought I was joking. I offered two hundred. She showed up with the goods. I fucked her brains out.
After we fucked we talked for two hours. I made her cry. She said I was beautiful. I told her she was wrong. She asked me why I hated myself so much, I told her…
She broke a tear falling from my right eye. I held her hand. She embraced me. I felt her breath hot on my neck. I pulled her hand to my heart – told her how fast it was beating – told her it was because of her (total lie) – she fucking melted… she fucked me on the house…
We ended up fucking well into the afternoon. She sucked my cock raw. I ate her pussy god-knows how many times… I licked every part of her body… her legs, her thighs, her pussy, then her tight and golden belly, up to her ribs, to her tits (which were perfect), up her neck, then we kissed (which is a no-no in the hooker world), and while we kissed I closed my eyes and pretended she was Sonya – I felt every inch of her tongue inside my mouth – I loved this girl – and then I entered her again and fucked her slowly, passionately… like my life depended on it.
And for every time I came she came thrice…
And in the midst of all this animal passion, I not only convinced her she was loved but I convinced myself I loved her as well…
By the time we woke up and she stretched over to hold me close I pushed her off, stood up naked, went for my wallet, and gave her the fucking boot.
She asked me if there was something wrong with her…
I told her probably so, but assured her at the same time she wasn’t the problem. I told her I was. I told her I was a virus…
I told her I was doing her a favor.
She begged to stay. Told me I just needed someone to love. I asked her if she thought she was that person…
She said yes.
I laughed my ass off.
She cried.
I said to her, like I could ever love a fucking hooker.
She cried some more.
And eventually, although I don’t remember how or when, she left.
Her name was Tanya. I made her go by Sonya.
Aside from Tanya the hooker and Heather the shrink my human interaction has been limited. Some time ago, I don’t remember when, someone called my phone in the middle of the night. I had been up three days straight eating half a bottle of Adderall and took the call. For at least an hour I was certain I was talking to Sonya. Turns out I was talking to some stalker-chick. For a minute I thought maybe one of Sasha’s friends or a flat-out nut. Freaked out. Hung up on the broad. Ten minutes later I get a text message from her, says something like, you’ve got such a strange sense of humor… but I understand it. Sleep tight. Kisses. Rachael…
I don’t know any Rachael and the following morning I couldn’t find the text on any of my phones. I’m certain I imagined the whole thing. I’m sure I’m going insane. I wonder if the hooker was even real…
And then it happens – here in the present – I walk into my dark bedroom and find a naked girl sleeping in my bed. It’s the hooker. Did she ever leave? Is she breathing? God, did I kill this girl? Wait a minute, is she even real…
I’m cracking. Breaking. Going fucking bonkers.
Cal’s been calling my dummy-phones day and night. I hear he’s in dead with the Persian’s… those little wannabe’s V and Ali. I used to sell the slimy fucks speed way back when. Word is Cal’s into them something heavy and auctioning off all daddy’s shit piece-by-piece in hopes to meet the weekly marker they set. Some could assess the blame my way… whatever… not my problem. I’ve got other shit on my mind.
Been so depressed can hardly function. I think I’m having at least one heart-attack a day. I barely move. I write and hate what I’m writing. I don’t write I hate that I’m not writing. It’s all a cycle. And where I once thought my independence would bring about solace and open the doors to a new life… I’m only finding myself deeper, darker, and more hopeless with every tick on the face.
Could this be it? The grand scheme? The plan…
Boy has dream. Boy sacrifices in name of dream. Boy achieves benchmark in pursuit of said dream – but is so far removed from the world and who he once was… finds only a nightmare.
I watch a lot more TV now than I ever had in the past. I hate every minute of it. Through the television in the many hours I zone before it, I’m surrounded at every end by other people’s accomplishments. And what’s worse, most of these people are morons. Dylan McDermont has another TV show on TNT. Some slut got a reality gig. Some eighteen year-old shine is getting ten-mil a year to throw a ball through a hoop. A pop-king dies and achieves more in death than I could in five lifetimes…
It’s all there before me, in high-definition, pre-packaged, digital-video-recorded splendor…
It mocks me.
Beckons and calls and nags the eternal question…
What the fuck have you done today?
I’ve done nothing. And what’s worse I’ll continue to do nothing. In fact the only thing I really do with my days is nothing – and apart from this inconvenient truth – mentally I’m left with no light at the end of the tunnel…
As where most in my position would rack their minds for a way out…
I do nothing more than torture myself for the place I’m in…
And am far too tired to dig my way out…
It’s all downhill from here and I have nowhere left to go.
Cal’s looking for me. Sonya doesn’t want me. Mom is emailing and calling. Dad’s sick or something of the like. Heather wants me on Lexapro. Mel wants to go to Ecco tonight (or was that yesterday). My car is paid in full. Cable bill is due sometime soon. I haven’t brushed my teeth in days. Some chick named Rachael understands me…
And there very well may be a hooker in my bedroom.
Can this all be real?
Is this my life?
Is this what I’ve become?
Pondering all of this, contemplating if I should walk into my bedroom and verify if the hooker is real a song by Brian Eno plays on my computer in the background…
It’s just another day, Eno sings, Just another day on earth…
