Authors: Victoria Sawyer
My pity party turns to anger in an instant. How can I let
him fuck with me like this?! Why would he dance with me for a moment, kiss me
back, only to leave again, after everything he said the other night? It’s
wicked frustrating!
Fuck him!
I want to scream because I can’t find my
friends in the crowd. Wandering around alone like a stupid friendless girl,
people looking at me as if I’m weird because I’m alone.
Goddamn it!
Now
I’m pissed, working myself up into a frenzy of anger. I want a confrontation,
now. I’m ripe for it, scanning the crowd for Jared because he’s going to hear
it. By God, he’s going to.
There are a lot of people packed into the dim basement and
it’s hard to move around, but near the edge there’s room, although it’s dark. Finally
I decide to try upstairs, Hannah or Jared, someone has to be upstairs. I wander
around the first floor until I find a living room where there are couches set
up around an old TV. It’s dark but I can see someone sitting, leaning against
the arm rest, head in hand. As I get closer, I can tell it’s him. He looks over
at me for a moment, face cold, unreadable and then he looks away. My blood
starts to boil.
Can he seriously even give me the time of day?!
I’m standing there staring at him and he’s not looking at me
and my irritation is growing and growing like an evil cancer or tumor until I
want to shriek like some kind of banshee. This is just like every other guy
that fucked with my feelings, played mind games, didn’t make any sense.
I
hate those fucking assholes. I hate Jared.
Before I can really think about
what I’m doing, I walk in and straddle his lap, feeling bold as all sweet hell.
I’m gonna get his damn attention. I’m gonna fuck with him like he did me. Apparently
I can be her,
that girl
. For a moment I pause, this seems unreal, the
world is fuzzy, out of focus.
What am I doing?
I look at him quickly and
he’s still not looking at me. I tense up, totally pissed off.
Faccck…God I
want to smack him!
A quick thought rushes through about the last time I
tried this game and how badly I failed. I push that thought away.
I. Don’t. Care.
“What does it take to get your attention, Jared?” I ask
wiggling my ass into his lap. “Hmmm???”
He doesn’t respond, he won’t even look at me. I want to push
him, I want to get a reaction no matter what I have to do. I want him to lash
out.
“So basically you’re a passive aggressive asshole to me last
time and now suddenly you want to make out with me and then you leave. What the
fuck is your deal?” I blurt. I’m so damn drunk, my mouth filter is totally
gone.
A tiny niggling thought in the back of my mind warns me of
impending embarrassment and catastrophic rejection if I push him too far, but I
thrust that thought away. I’m done playing his game, I’m gonna play mine now. And
maybe my feelings will get obliterated, maybe I’ll reveal too much, but at this
point it doesn’t matter to me, I’ve already been feeling like shit, what more
can I feel? Plus I’m drunk.
Reckless, stupid drunk.
I’ve been here
before and I can’t stop. Because making him talk is what matters. When he still
doesn’t respond, my anger blinds me.
“You are a fucking bastard, Jared McKinley, and I'm tired of
dealing with your bullshit and your fucking mind games!” I growl, shoving my
hands against his chest and pushing my chest in its low cut tank top close to
his face. He doesn’t move, his face to the side, not looking at me, staring
into the darkness as if I weren’t even there.
“Does this get your attention?” I ask, purring into his ear,
“What do I have to do? Tell me? Do you want me to be your slut, asshole, cause
I’m lonely tonight.” I state, sweet as pie until the word,
asshole
, that
I deliver with as much venom as possible. I wiggle myself provocatively on his
lap, pressing up against his hard chest. I lean down and kiss his neck, feeling
a fire burst through me.
He’s breathing harder now, but he won’t look me in the eye
as I lean back. Finally I grab his chin roughly, forcing his startled eyes to
mine. “Do you want to fuck me?” I say snidely, staring into his emotionless
eyes, at last seeing a look of frustration mixed with anger cross his face.
“No…I,” he replies and then trails off.
No? Faaccck that
stings.
He quickly glances away, his face again unreadable, and then he
struggles to stand, almost knocking me to the ground in his haste. He reaches
out, fingers cutting into my arm at the last moment, just barely keeping me
from falling over.
After he steadies me, he stalks away, heading toward the
stairs and most likely his brother’s room, pushing his way through crowds of
people in the hallway.
God damn him!!
Why won’t he tell me what his deal
is?
As he weaves through the crowd and finally starts up the
stairs, I follow. I’m not going to let him get away with avoiding me this time.
I will hear him say something. It’s like I’m throwing a temper tantrum, trying
to get my own way and the alcohol is fueling me. I have a sudden appreciation
of my hazy drunken confidence. I’m pretty sure I’ll regret it…but right now it
feels damn right. I take the last slug off the cup I’m still miraculously
holding and take the stairs two at a time, trying not to trip.
Finally upstairs, I follow him into Andy’s empty room. He
probably wants to be alone, but I don’t give a shit, it’s time to find out the
truth. As he walks in before me, I clutch at his arm, stopping him dead. I
force him to turn around and face me, but he won’t look at me, avoiding my
eyes, his face tense as hell.
Sketchy bastard, what is his problem?!
I
pause for a moment, just looking at him. He looks away, pissed maybe, annoyed
probably, tired of my shit…
oh yes.
“What the fuck, Jared!” I yell, “You are the biggest bastard
ever! I start thinking that you might be interested in me and then you don’t
call and then seem all pissy and bitchy last time me and treat me like shit. And
now you want to dry hump and make out and then walk away. What the fuck is your
problem? Why are you fucking with me?!” I push my finger into his chest, trying
to force him to look me in the eyes.
He’s still ignoring me!
“Oh my God,” I cry in exasperation. “Fuck you, fuck you,
fuck you!” I hiss, “I don't know what else to say to get under your skin. You
are COLD!! You’re a fuckin rock! At least tell me you don't care, tell me you
hate me, tell me something! Tell me I'm ugly, I'm repulsive, I'm anything at
all, so long as you take notice of me!” I grind out, my breath coming in gulps.
“I can’t fuckin understand you, you’re emotionally fucked and you make no
sense!”
He’s breathing harder than normal and his face looks stiff
as a corpse and just as expressionless as I jab him in the chest with my
finger, pushing him into reaction, trying to make him say anything at all. His
entire body is rigid, fists clenching and unclenching. In a final fit of anger
and drunken desperation I raise my palms to shove him, smack him, something,
willing finally to do violence to him and before I can lash out he pushes me back
into the wall.
“No, Victoria,” he says, hands on either side of my head,
his expression like fire, burning hot and just as deadly. Now he’s come to
life, from a statue into colorful rage.
Oh shit, what have I done?
“Victoria, you are annoying as hell, but I can't,
absolutely, can’t do this anymore,” he says, eyes searing, lips compressed. I
gulp, stunned, my heart in my throat. Here it is, here’s his confession, he
hates me, I’m disgusting, not smart enough, not fun, boring, a slut, whatever.
Oh
damn, I definitely asked for this.
I asked to be squashed like the little
bug I am. Now I’m not sure I want to hear it. My imagination is running around
in circles with possibilities as he pauses, hanging his head before finally
looking up at me, eyes sparking with anger.
“You want to know the truth? God knows you’ve fucking asked
for it. I want to fuck you, okay? I've wanted to since day one and I can't
pretend anymore that I don't. But…you… piss me the fuck off,” he says, his
voice clipped as he slides his hand under my hair at the nape of my neck. His
eyes are burning, pissed off, angry and then before I know what’s happening, he
kisses me, his mouth forcing mine open as shock waves radiate through my body. My
mind screaming,
Oh MY fuckin GOD!!!
His lips are firm and insistent and his hands are moving all
over my body the way they had earlier on the dance floor. Caressing me,
massaging me, feeling every part of me with questioning fingertips, reaching up
under my tiny tank-top, hot kisses moving from my mouth, searing my neck and
over the exposed skin above my neckline and my heart is pounding in
exhilaration, my thoughts racing with disbelief that he’s doing this...now! This
is what I had imagined, this is how I’ve always wanted him, hot, nasty and fast
and my pulse races, skin on fire with his touch.
I kiss him back, my tongue moving into his mouth, tasting of
beer and desire. I writhe up against him, my hands wrapped around his neck
pulling him in, his hands gliding over me and I feel alive with feelings that are
good, energized, not my normal quivering fear. I touch him back, wanting to
feel bare skin, pulling up his t-shirt, running my fingers over his smooth
skin, feeling the hard planes, the changes in his chest as his pecs move as he
skims his hands over my body.
God damn, this is hot
, kissing him, hard,
desire welling up like a geyser inside. And you know what…this time I’m not
gonna fuck this up. I’m gonna let him do whatever he wants to do. I need to.
And then, suddenly, he pulls away, again.
What???
He pulls
back and the air between us is suddenly cold, his hot hands abruptly leaving my
body. He just stares at me for a moment, eyes bright and clear, before shaking
his head and turning away.
“I want to sleep with you, but I won’t,” he says, looking at
me again with what appears to be anguish or crankiness or maybe just some kind
of stuck up snob look and then he turns away
again
, literally walking
out of the room as fast as he can move without running. No backward glance,
nothing.
I stand there leaning against the wall, trying to catch my
breath, trying to clear the sexual fog from my brain with this new cold
information that he just left me again. It makes no sense. I can’t comprehend
what just happened. He admitted that he wants me but said he won’t sleep with
me?? He kissed me and it was fucking hot, a physical attraction that has burned
between us for months, but why the hell did he leave? I thought this was it,
this was us coming together, finally, after all this time and now it’s over? I
sag down against the wall a heavy dark confusion and depression soon overriding
everything else as his words sink in. Warring factions inside me, questions,
denial, not understanding a thing. This is some kind of rejection, catastrophic
confidence crushing rejection. I’m not good enough for him, for some reason he
will not be with me. I start to sob, hot tears running over my cold cheeks. I
won’t go after him again tonight. My rage is over, cooled, dead, but my
questions still remain.
My Assignment: A poem that describes sound
Funksations
The midnight moon rises and time skips by,
Gaining speed
We wait, smoky and blurred,
Until music emerges
It jumps, leaps, begins to twitch.
Accelerating and coursing,
Setting our bodies into motion
We move inside the music
As energy pours, circles and flows
Adrenaline pumps, setting pistons on fire
Gears meshing, faster and faster
In time with tempo, my body,
A fluid machine in motion
Arching, bending, twisting,
Surging with power and life
Now within the music, patterns appear,
Shapes, distinct and clear
Notes weaving, crisscrossing
With deep resonating melodies
A beat submerges,
Reverberating in the distance
Echoes punched through walls,
Fathomless and muted
Bodies pulse, join together, separate
Down and up, back and forth, swinging, swaying
Riding, as the music slithers,
Drops and suddenly starts again
Entranced within the invisible,
My heart palpitates in my ears
My pulse shivers, moving blood
An instant of comprehension
Lightheaded and underwater
We move, time skips by
Accelerating and coursing, seconds elapse
A fluid machine, electric shock
Notes reverberating through walls
I’m in art class this semester. Drawing 101. Our assignment
was to draw a self-portrait, studying our faces in the mirror for hours on end,
trying to replicate every nuance. Some do better than others. Now we’re sitting
in class, sharing our work.
A critique.
Everyone’s work hangs on the
wall, including mine. They are all studies of the human face from different
angles, some looking very much like the artist and others quite a ways off. Mine
is nothing like these. It’s a sore thumb, a bright red light in a sea of
darkness. It’s the inner me, the demons, a mash up of details of a face, nose,
lips, an eye with a huge tear drop about to fall, a bottle of vodka and shot
glass, my journal, a tornado to represent my hectic life, a black storm cloud,
my crazy secret, breaking over the scene. Everyone is staring at it when the
teacher walks into the room.
He is late fifties, balding and a pervert. I can tell
because when we did our studies of the human figure and had a nude model he had
her posing in all kinds of provocative ways.
Oh, why don’t you bend over
like this,
or
stick your butt out like this. Gross. Sick bastard.
But
he’s a nice enough guy otherwise and a true artist from what I have seen of his
stuff. He’s surveying our works now, chin in hand as he walks back and forth in
front of the critique wall. I know he keeps catching on mine like a hangnail.