I wrote most of this in the car
This is the thing about Monica Waters.
Mon's vicious, violent. It scares off boys her own age, on or it would if there were any around and she wasn't in the process of being tossed between the school she was asked to leave and the next (also all-girls) one that has deigned to take her. She used to be clumsy and careless too, in these moments, but that goes with practice. That's the other thing, she's perfectly clear about what she wants, now she's got it straight in her head.
Sometimes I get to hear about what is straight in her head, and sometimes I don't.
Anyway, that morning we're hungover and sore and the room is cold and my skin doesn't fit properly. When she kisses my neck I feel like I could throw up, and if I could move I'd bat her away, shove her straight off my body somehow - but of course I was pinned in place by nausea and aches as efficiently as if by my own handcuffs. I don't exactly read bondage manuals but I bet your ass they don't say shit about restraint via hangover, do they?
Told you.
Really? How sanctimonious of them.
So I lay still, I'm lying still, with Mon half-kissing and half-licking my neck (and complaining all the while that I taste rank), and my dick plays traitor to the rest of me because my fucking crotch and Mon are in collusions as always; I start to get hard. I feel like I've been run down with every truck on the island, Mon smells of nicotine and baby lotion, and she's mumbling that she could tear out my fucking jugular.
"Don't doubt it for a second."
It's the pressure of her hand on my opposite shoulder, half-holding me down, or the way her knee has my knee pushed into the mattress, sideways, painfully. Maybe it's her naked breast on my tricep and chest, nestling in the gap. Whatever, I start to get hard.
When I'm this fucked over by the revenge of the grape and the grain - poetic, right? - I don't have the energy to be afraid. Normally, before I'm too horny to care - hey, you asked - I get sick off the thought of what I'm damning myself to, and the fear and the wanting, the desire, they tangle around each other like, like snakes on a caduceus, like strands of DNA, like worms fucking. Like, like, like.
But when I'm concentrating already on how bad I feel, there's none of that. Just cringing awfulness and increasing, you know, horn.
Look, you asked.
So Mon's holding the side of my face hard enough to hurt it, which isn't really that hard even, right now, but it's hard enough, and she's kissing my mouth; I'm kissing her back with as much force as I can. That's not a lot. I still feel like the waking, wanking dead.
And I'm torn up in a three-way struggle between how badly I need to breathe, how clammy and gross and generally hungover I feel, and how much - though I can't bear to move - how much I want to bend my arm enough so I can cradle her breast in my hand.
I think I'm being very grown-up about it, actually.
It's cold enough in there that you can see her breath coming out of her nose like cigarette smoke; mine's more reticent because I'm getting ill, sick, sicker, and nothing's going in and out of my nostrils any more. Which is why I need to stop kissing her. Why I can't is another story, maybe a little less convincing.
Alright, a lot less convincing. Stop snorting. I know what you think of my self-control.
Mon shifts her position so many times I start to get impatient, angry at the discomfort. Her knee tugs mine, her weight down one side of my body is crippling and killing me, and all this movement is, worst of all, irregular. If she'd just work to some kind of rhythm, the friction of her nipple on my chest-then-arm-then-chest-then-clavicle would be enough to go somewhere. I could pretend -
No, still hard.
Oh right. Yeah, going to hell does not get any less enjoyable each time, thank you. Anyway, Mon got tired of digging her fingers into my face and dragged them down the rest of me. No, no duvet, because she kicked it on the floor when she woke me up.
Huh? Because she's a horrible bitch.
So she drags her fingers down the length of me. Oh you're just going to have to deal with it. It's not like I'm giving you all the gruesome - you what? Fine, fuck you. You can have them.
Mon drags her fingers from my cheek down over my chest and stomach to my dick. And I mean drag. It'd be sharper if she didn’t bite her nails, but the way she digs them in it still hurts like being scratched with a bunch of keys, and since you wanted the gruesome fucking details, you pervert, you get the mental image of my sick corpse-like body with its patchy chest hair and clammy sweat arching up when she does that. How do you like that? Because that's the truth. She hurts me, I like it.
Yeah, enjoy that.
Point is that while she's raking her nails down my stomach, or what nails she has, she still hasn't moved enough that I can move properly and I can't fucking jerk myself around to touch her beyond the odd feeble flap because I feel like roadkill. Really, really turned-on roadkill, but roadkill all the same.
See I can tell from the way you're scowling through that vodka and tonic that this is not a dilemma you've had yourself. Well, let me enlighten you, buddy. Have you ever woken up feeling like the underside of a subway train but popping a chubby that you could beat a whale to death with? I'm guessing not the 'beating to death' part because you're probably hung like a dwarf hamster, but just use your imagination.
You know how you lie there trying to keep the top of your head on and not vomit explosively all over yourself, but at the same time you're packing wood like the Forestry Commission?
Oh come on. You know. You do.
It's like that, only there is a naked chick kissing your mouth and yanking your fucking pubes. Let me tell you that is some new kind of distracting and conflicting. On the one hand, the pain's a good way to take your attention off of how grim you feel. On the other hand, you can't really breathe because Mon - well, I couldn't breathe - because Mon's still trying to extract tonsils with her tongue. And on the third mystery hand which is now yanking on my dick just around the wrong side of too hard, and just hard enough. Yeah, at the same time.
I can tell you what it feels like if you want, since you are apparently a virgin.
Where was I?
Here. Listen. You want to hear so much about this, go fuck yourself. You want to hear about what it feels like to have the girl you're deranged over slide down onto your dick? Fuck you, go fall in love with someone and waste half your life mooning over her and then finally get her insensible enough to agree to sleep with your maggoty ass and then you can come back and tell me what fucking words to use about when she kneels on your thighs by accident and then your dick slips into a warm wet heaven, okay? You're the fucking hack. It's not my job to tell you it feels like coming home after being lost for a thousand years. That's your job.
No, buddy. This is where we stop. Vulture.