I woke up and I was taking her from behind like a savage. She was black, dark black. Tattoos. I popped into consciousness out of blackness and my dick was pushing into her tight pussy and she was moaning. Eat your heart out, Quantum Leap.
She had flaked on our date. I showed up at the bar on time. Ten minutes later got the text that she forgot. Before that another girl “had her car towed” 20 minutes before our date. Before that a Manic Pixie Dream Girl emailed me 15 minutes before our date: her friends were throwing her a surprise party. But she forgot to put the “o” in “.com” so I showed up and sat there forever like a jerkoff. Manic Pixie Dream Cunt.
She forgot. She was at a happy hour in Hollywood. It was implied that I might join her. But the sun had been down for a few hours so my BAC was at felony level. I needed to draw her back. I needed a miracle. I needed cocaine. My dealer had been deported to Honduras. There to be ventilated by death squads no doubt. Sorry Manny.
On a scale of 1 to 10, I texted, how good is your coke dealer.
11, she said.
Thirty minutes later I was walking two miles down Normandie from the 4 bus with my rent money in my pocket. She was cute. We got high. Stocked up at the liquor store. We coke talked about the state of race relations in America. Listened to Band of Horses youtube videos. Her laundry hamper was in the living room. Every time she went to take a piss I dug for her dirty panties. Sniffed them like they were an oxygen mask and I was trapped in the rubble of the World Trade Center. We’re not going to have sex, she said, as we smoked out the bathroom window. Fine. But I kept pawing at her. Pulling up her shirt and pulling down her pajama pants to look at her ass. Magnificent.
She had pills too. Percocets. The pills and wine won their battle with the coke when I was smearing tangerine scented massage oil in her ass crack. I woke up and I was fucking her. She got on top of me and she could move. The state of race relations in America was improving. Next date we’ll have dinner.