“Remember the time you drove all night, just to meet me in the morning.”
Bright Eyes draped the walls in his thick velvet. His sorrowful chorus danced step to stair, seeping between our bodies, drying our sweat and ringing about the basement. It was beautiful. I pushed tears into my eyes so that she would see a glisten and ask me about it:
“Are you okay darling?”
Like a preteen on a yard long margarita I sucked them back in.
“I don’t care.”
We’d just fucked. I picked her in on my bike and her thrift-store threaded hips pounded into me the whole ride back to my place. It was dusk, and the world’s seedest were about to make their nightly rounds.
Alysin and I got back to my place and after giving my mom’s Murder-Back-Ribs the finger we slid into our own hovel downstairs. I pulled out my vinyls, she picked Bright Eyes and I put the other record away. Since I didn’t care, I smacked the needle into place and it landed squarely in the runoff groove. We listened to the rustle for several minutes.
After a few minutes of Side B (Side A is for faggots and posers), we started kissing, and she pressed her herself into my chest. Landing on my lap, she tried to straddle me, but her pants were too tight for her to spread her legs. I reached under her Urban Outfitters and grabbed at her un-bra’d breasts. She moaned in time with Oberst’s sporadic cries and was almost on beat. I kissed her neck and three days of salted sweat danced on my tongue, washing away the bitter taste of Mom’s expectations.
Finally we grabbed each other and threw ourselves on the couch, exploding in passion. In no more than twenty minutes I’d unsqueezed myself from my jeans and was ready to dive deep into her. Alysin pressed her flattened breasts against me, crying that she hadn’t been fucked like this since gradeschool.
“Is this good for you Jimothy?”
I didn’t care.
“I don’t care.”
Her Ray Bans fogged and she pressed her forehead into my sweatband, three weeks of stubble and she said she almost felt something. On the floor our color-striped shirts threaded the rug, they were 40% Cotton, 60% Polyester and 100% Retro. She pulled my shirt back so the neckline rose to my bellybutton, showing the hair I planned on growing on my stomach.
Finally I was in her, pulling myself in and out slowly to chords that were being played on a guitar by Bright Eyes while he sang. I narrated to her my actions, explaining that I thought her insides were cool beans. Through my Kanye Shades shades I saw horizontal stripes of her messy blonde hair. Above her sat this month’s pack of cigarettes and a lighter shaped like a Smurf.
I tried not to pay attention to her while we fucked, because frankly, I didn’t care. To make her feel good though, I would whimper every once in a while. We carried through, quietly fucking until my parent’s knocked on the door and said that my Aunt had sent me a hundred dollars for my twenty-second birthday. Mom never leaves me alone.
Finally we finished having all the sex and I lay on top of her, our naked bodies beautiful in the One’s eyes. She ruffled my hair and when she got her hand unstuck put it against my back.
“Jimothy, I have a lot of feelings for you.”
“I know Alysin. Me too.”
She was quiet.
I rolled off her and reorganized my vinyls (Bright Eyes was after Death Cab). I must have misplaced them in my passion. Oh well. I don’t care.
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