by R Must

I never thought you’d go for it.

I heard your voice over the phone; deep and smooth and headless and attractive. I played with the possibility in my mind, like mercury sliding in the palm of my hand, I toyed with the thought of you like a cat with a roach between its paws.

I met you.

“What did you think of me, when we first met?” you asked me.

I thought: I’ll have that.

We got juice and you tripped me and I asked how old you were again. Thirty this year. I lied and told you I was twenty.

The juice tasted like shit and I rolled another cigarette. You made fun of it and me.

“Look at you, you just missed it when you went to lick it, licked thin air-” and you licked thin air, imitating me, breeze cool on your tongue. I watched you and licked the inside of my teeth. I put the smoke between my lips and let it slide down my throat.

Driving over the Story Bridge was always my favourite. I would turn my head and look for as long as I dare at the pretty bright lights sparkling over the black river. I would look back to the road and swerve back between the lines. I missed the turn off and was late. There was a crash on the South Brisbane exit and I was late. Never as late as the last night I saw you, left waiting on the stairs to your house with only the stray cat in your drive for company.

I hated the hanging beads you had in the doorframe leading to from the front room to the kitchen and the kitchen to the hallway. they clung to me every time i tried to leave.

You stole my pouch of tobacco and I threw a tantrum like a little kid trying to get it back. You laid back on your bed, the pouch tucked in your chest, I knew the only way to get it was to straddle you, pin your big arms down, look into your eyes.

“You want me to sit on you to get it?”

You grinned.

“Tough luck sucker,” I said. The beads swished as I went outside to smoke a cigarette and stare at the bridge.

Back in your room,  we watched Honest Trailers on your ultra thin gold macbook air that’s riddled with viruses and took ten minutes to load a three minute trailer. Then you laid back and I laid cautiously near you, like a cat laying carefully close to a large dog, trusting enough to be near but not enough to bridge the gap.

Your lips on mine are so big and they slide over my entire face like you’re about to unhinge your jaw and devour my head whole; I almost think you’re joking.

The window’s wide open, the bridge shines from above the black river. I think that if someone in the city had a lot of time and good binoculars they could see your bare back as you pumped away, and my legs in the air as i crunched my face up and saw nothing but skin and sheets. I wonder if your housemates can hear the yelps of pain through the walls. the door’s ajar. I squirm to get away from you. You make noises like you’re in a porno, like ‘uh, yeah, uh, uh’ and ‘you like that baby?’ and i start wishing it was over, trapped in a jungle of flesh and strong arms and husky whispers and then your face is beside mine, and i can hear you breathing in my ear, can feel your arm tightening around my neck, can feel the blood pounding in my head and you say something and i say ‘anywhere’ because I’m thinking you’re like an energiser bunny and I’m never fucking anyone this fit again and you’re like a slobbering bear and I’m like a rabbit in the jaws of a cat being shaken around and the sheets are slick with sweat and your huge chest is slick with sweat and the         stench fills the entire room and my face is pushed into the pillow and i say ‘anywhere’

so you ripped the condom off and came on my back and the whole scene stops, slows down to the same pace as the semen slowly sliding between my shoulder blades. and the world catches up. and the guy with the binoculars grunts and finishes, slows to the same pace as us. you toss me in the bin with the condom and i crawl out to roll a cigarette.

Robyn Must is an ex-QUT student on a leave of absence, working and living on the Gold Coast. She writes mostly short stories and can be found at radicsadic.wordpress.com.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s