This is an experiment.
I could say many things to you. I could pick you apart, little by little. I could say I want to fuck you and be speaking the truth. I don’t want to write you a poem. I don’t want to compare your hair to the silky smooth black of a raven’s wing. I don’t want to look at your eyes and be reminded of deep pools of effervescent liquid. All I want, is to fuck you.
It would seem simple, for you would agree. What are you to me anyway? I will use you like a Kleenex, blow into you and cast you aside. Now is not the time for niceties. We’ve had our courtship, you with your beer and me with my feigned interest. You might say no, at first, but my wilful and slow cajoling will win you over. Your inebriation will not help, it will only aid and abet me. And I will use it like a workman using his hammer, methodically and forcefully. I will complement you, in terms that you understand. Your eyes are blue like the sky I will say. In fact, your eyes are brown, like murky puddles. But you won’t notice. You’ll giggle coquettishly, like a schoolgirl on her first date. You look beautiful, I will say. But your dress is too short, when you sit, it hikes up to your thighs and we all see what you want us to. Your thighs thick like muddled thoughts. We know you’re not wearing any underwear.
I could say that you remind me of someone from an Albrecht Durer woodcut but you wouldn’t know who that was. I could say you’re obtuse and you wouldn’t understand the context. I keep whispering things in your ear, compliments that complement. I don’t laugh, just smile and you fall for it. You try too hard to make me laugh and when I do, it’s almost like you’ve orgasmed already. Your brush your hair away from your forehead, your fake straight hair that’s splitting at the ends. I touch it lightly and its coarse, like bark, but you want it. You want me to touch you, in places dark and noxious. I accidently spill beer on your dress and you make a little dismayed noise, a sound that I’ve heard before from a sheep.
I lead you towards the room, that room that I know is empty. I tell you there’s more beer there. You’re not nearly drunk enough but you pretend like you are, so that tomorrow, you can say you were. I close and lock the door and even before I turn around, you have your dress off. I don’t think about what I’m doing. Am I evil? Am I taking advantage? Yes. Of course. Do you think I don’t know that? But I’ll do it anyway. Why? Because I can. Because I’m hedonistic and pleasure is all I think of. Instant gratification. Even from someone like you. So detestable, so vulgar, so crass. You disgust me. And yet, I will do this. I will enjoy it and so will you. But later, I will hate myself, not because of the act, but because it’s you. I will leave you then, lying naked on that bed. I won’t even take off my clothes, I don’t want to share my body with you.
You’re standing there and I can’t even look at you. You’re like that Edward Munch painting, grotesque not just in appearance but from the inside. Rotten from the core, as if there is a worm eating you from the inside. If you could hear what I am thinking, you’d probably ask why? You’d be disgusted. You’d be mortified. And who wouldn’t. Anyone else reading this would be horrified. But they wouldn’t know what you do. They don’t know you. They don’t know your empty vacous brain, your vagina wider than the grand canyon, your breasts so perfectly round and firm like a caricature of what natural healthy breasts should look like. They don’t know how you break hearts, step on them as if they were broken glass, crunching underneath your high-heeled shoes. I saw you with him, and him, and him and him and him. I saw you with my best friend, my brother and so many others. But that’s not the point. I’m a bad person. That’s the point. You maybe rotten but I’m just as terrible. Only, I’m not like you. You maybe a pig, but I’m a wolf. You may be a slut, I’m a player. What difference is there? I’m about to have my way with you, and you’re going to let me, willingly. You’re going to do things to me that you won’t mention tomorrow. I won’t even ask for them. You’ll offer. And you’ll take my silence for acquiescence.
You still stand there, bewildered because I’m not launching myself at your oh-so-irresistible body. Be patient love, it will come. I feel like that Prodigy song, you know which one. There is the beat in my brain, driving my fervour higher and higher. I move towards you and you fall back, legs spread. It will be a long night.