references to my vagina already edited out
Here is a portion of a story I'm working on. It's the one where I attempt to sound like a guy.
I saw an imposing storm cloud in the distance some time after passing the blue and white sign that shouted, "Welcome to Fulton County." As my car made its way along County Road 14 it became clear that the cloud had settled over my destination. Perfect pristine Archbold was currently a very dark place.
I thought the rain suited it, though few of the residents would be quick to agree with me. For them Archbold is associated with nice things, sunshine, rainbows, and the good Lord Jesus. I have never had a sunshine and rainbows sort of life. The fluffy oh so happy thing freaks me out. I like a clean honest downpour, the kind of rain that washes all the bullshit away.
When I stepped out of the car my feet sank deep into the mud beneath me. My heart was sinking a little too. I was in need of a little liquid courage so I made a beeline for the closest bartender.
The building still reeked of tobacco and made my fingers yearn for a cigarette. That was another time, so I ordered a scotch on the rocks and took a seat at the bar. The brown haired man next to me lifted his head up from his bourbon. Those goddamn green eyes bored straight into me. I braced myself for a blow or at least a sharp word but Peter just laughed. He smiled, his cheeks dimpled and I melted into my stool.
I don't know why I continued to sit next to him. Peter Ruihley made my life here a living hell. He and his asshole friends had the courage to gang up on me after school on my first day at Archbold High. Then I stole his girlfriend, which cemented our mutual enmity.
He kept looking at me.
“What?”
“So Archbold’s skinniest punk has returned,” he replied with a slur and a smile, “Why?”
I had hoped he wouldn't recognize me. Ten fucking years and people around here still know me from a mile away.
I tried to come up with some biting retort. I came up with, “Fuck off, redneck,” which is not clever and my inability to pull my gaze away from Peter's perfect arms probably ruined the effect. Worst of all, he seemed to notice.
“You can do better than that.”
“I'm out of practice.”
“I thought you'd never come back to this hellhole.”
“Its temporary.”
“Why?”
“Dad,” I answered, since I couldn't stop looking at Peter I decided to elaborate, “He's fighting with his wife. They're heading for divorce, and I'm here to do the paperwork.”
“Since when are you the good boy?” Peter snarled, “You know it won’t change your reputation around here. You can never change. You are always what they think you are.”
I felt a little attacked. I had worked hard to make something of myself after a complete breakdown. I was done letting these small town pricks belittle me.
“I’ve changed. I went back to school and became a fucking lawyer. What the fuck have you done?”
Peter looked back down at his drink.
“I wasn’t attacking you.”
“What?”
“It’s this town. The people, they look at you and place you in a role and you are stuck there and eventually you start to become what they think you are.”
“I thought you loved this place.”
“I did too,” Peter threw back the last of his bourbon. I noticed that Peter looked rundown and a small bruise marred one of his sharp cheekbones. He was sporting a jagged five o’clock shadow that brought out his jaw line in one light and made him look sickly in another. He motioned for the bartender. I downed the last of my Scotch and intercepted the bartender.
“I’ll have another Scotch and his next drink is on my tab.”
“More Bourbon,” Peter said with his cosonants extended and his vowels all blurred. He laughed at himself. He was beautiful when he laughed, even when it was a sad laugh, “I better slow down before I start sounding like Laurie.”
I had just taken a drink and this statement sent the liquor shooting out of my nose.
“Slurry Laurie,” I sputtered laughing hard.
Peter leaned on the bar, still laughing, his defined forearms stretched out in front of him gracefully. He sat up and looked at me, smiling slightly and sadly.
“Wanna know something?
“Sure.”
“It's my birthday and I don’t really drink.”
“So you’re pulling a Dean Martin and that bourbon is actually apple juice.”
“No. I mean I don’t usually drink. I got a package from my ex-wife today.”
“Not the birthday present you wanted then.”
“Why did your dad move back here?”
“Finish your story first.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“So is mine.”
We sat drinking in silence for several minutes.
Peter was starting to have some trouble staying on top of his stool. I ordered him a glass of water and he leaned into me. He smelled of peppermint, aftershave, and bourbon.
“She wasn’t worth it,” he whispered.
“You should head home.”
“No,” Peter shouted, “I hate it.”
The bartender walked over and said he was cutting us both off. I could have protested. I was sober enough, but my appetite for liquor had already dissipated anyway. With Peter draped over me, I made my way out of the bar and into the rain.
“Where do you want to go?”
Without warning, Peter pushed me up against the wall. I braced for a blow that never came. Peter kissed me, hard. His tongue slipped in and out of my mouth gracefully. I nearly came right there. I ran my fingers through his soft brown hair and pulled him in closer. He came up for air and the stink of alcohol on his breath made me pull away.
“What are you doing?”
“I want you,” Peter muttered sticking his long hands down the back of my pants.
“Do you want the whole town to know?” I replied pulling him back towards the alley.
“I guess not,” he said with this slight pout. I immediately pulled him into my arms and started kissing those beautiful lips.
I saw an imposing storm cloud in the distance some time after passing the blue and white sign that shouted, "Welcome to Fulton County." As my car made its way along County Road 14 it became clear that the cloud had settled over my destination. Perfect pristine Archbold was currently a very dark place.
I thought the rain suited it, though few of the residents would be quick to agree with me. For them Archbold is associated with nice things, sunshine, rainbows, and the good Lord Jesus. I have never had a sunshine and rainbows sort of life. The fluffy oh so happy thing freaks me out. I like a clean honest downpour, the kind of rain that washes all the bullshit away.
When I stepped out of the car my feet sank deep into the mud beneath me. My heart was sinking a little too. I was in need of a little liquid courage so I made a beeline for the closest bartender.
The building still reeked of tobacco and made my fingers yearn for a cigarette. That was another time, so I ordered a scotch on the rocks and took a seat at the bar. The brown haired man next to me lifted his head up from his bourbon. Those goddamn green eyes bored straight into me. I braced myself for a blow or at least a sharp word but Peter just laughed. He smiled, his cheeks dimpled and I melted into my stool.
I don't know why I continued to sit next to him. Peter Ruihley made my life here a living hell. He and his asshole friends had the courage to gang up on me after school on my first day at Archbold High. Then I stole his girlfriend, which cemented our mutual enmity.
He kept looking at me.
“What?”
“So Archbold’s skinniest punk has returned,” he replied with a slur and a smile, “Why?”
I had hoped he wouldn't recognize me. Ten fucking years and people around here still know me from a mile away.
I tried to come up with some biting retort. I came up with, “Fuck off, redneck,” which is not clever and my inability to pull my gaze away from Peter's perfect arms probably ruined the effect. Worst of all, he seemed to notice.
“You can do better than that.”
“I'm out of practice.”
“I thought you'd never come back to this hellhole.”
“Its temporary.”
“Why?”
“Dad,” I answered, since I couldn't stop looking at Peter I decided to elaborate, “He's fighting with his wife. They're heading for divorce, and I'm here to do the paperwork.”
“Since when are you the good boy?” Peter snarled, “You know it won’t change your reputation around here. You can never change. You are always what they think you are.”
I felt a little attacked. I had worked hard to make something of myself after a complete breakdown. I was done letting these small town pricks belittle me.
“I’ve changed. I went back to school and became a fucking lawyer. What the fuck have you done?”
Peter looked back down at his drink.
“I wasn’t attacking you.”
“What?”
“It’s this town. The people, they look at you and place you in a role and you are stuck there and eventually you start to become what they think you are.”
“I thought you loved this place.”
“I did too,” Peter threw back the last of his bourbon. I noticed that Peter looked rundown and a small bruise marred one of his sharp cheekbones. He was sporting a jagged five o’clock shadow that brought out his jaw line in one light and made him look sickly in another. He motioned for the bartender. I downed the last of my Scotch and intercepted the bartender.
“I’ll have another Scotch and his next drink is on my tab.”
“More Bourbon,” Peter said with his cosonants extended and his vowels all blurred. He laughed at himself. He was beautiful when he laughed, even when it was a sad laugh, “I better slow down before I start sounding like Laurie.”
I had just taken a drink and this statement sent the liquor shooting out of my nose.
“Slurry Laurie,” I sputtered laughing hard.
Peter leaned on the bar, still laughing, his defined forearms stretched out in front of him gracefully. He sat up and looked at me, smiling slightly and sadly.
“Wanna know something?
“Sure.”
“It's my birthday and I don’t really drink.”
“So you’re pulling a Dean Martin and that bourbon is actually apple juice.”
“No. I mean I don’t usually drink. I got a package from my ex-wife today.”
“Not the birthday present you wanted then.”
“Why did your dad move back here?”
“Finish your story first.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“So is mine.”
We sat drinking in silence for several minutes.
Peter was starting to have some trouble staying on top of his stool. I ordered him a glass of water and he leaned into me. He smelled of peppermint, aftershave, and bourbon.
“She wasn’t worth it,” he whispered.
“You should head home.”
“No,” Peter shouted, “I hate it.”
The bartender walked over and said he was cutting us both off. I could have protested. I was sober enough, but my appetite for liquor had already dissipated anyway. With Peter draped over me, I made my way out of the bar and into the rain.
“Where do you want to go?”
Without warning, Peter pushed me up against the wall. I braced for a blow that never came. Peter kissed me, hard. His tongue slipped in and out of my mouth gracefully. I nearly came right there. I ran my fingers through his soft brown hair and pulled him in closer. He came up for air and the stink of alcohol on his breath made me pull away.
“What are you doing?”
“I want you,” Peter muttered sticking his long hands down the back of my pants.
“Do you want the whole town to know?” I replied pulling him back towards the alley.
“I guess not,” he said with this slight pout. I immediately pulled him into my arms and started kissing those beautiful lips.