| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Cindy Rosmus is a New York textbook editor by day, a hardboiled Jersey female by night. Her fiction has appeared in Black Petals, The Beat, The Cynic, Red Fez, Zygote in My Coffee, Hardboiled, NVF, The Monsters Next Door, Out of the Gutter, Devil Blossoms, & 13th Warrior Review. She has four collections of stories out: Angel of Manslaughter, Gutter Balls, Calpurnia’s Window, and No Place Like Home. She is the editor of the e-zine, Yellow Mama: http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/index.html
She is also a thrill seeker, a Gemini, and a Christian. |
| LAST CALL |
| by Cindy Rosmus |
| Remember, you tell yourself. It’s what you want. Who you want.
Bombed as he is. But you’re even drunker. Nine novenas you prayed for this. Both of you staggering into your foyer. Is it real, or a dream? As you fish for your keys, you see the mailboxes: Wilson, Rodriguez, Iannuzi, then yours. It’s real, you think, nearly sobbing with joy. He’s real. Donny, the love of your life, is with you, in your dusty foyer. All blond, and dimpled, looking like Tony from West Side Story . . . He shoves you against the wall, slips you the tongue. Without feeling his, you kiss back, wildly. Except for your heart, you’re numb, all over. It’s like a DVD you’re watching, of two people making out, after last call. He tastes like cigarettes. But you prayed for him. Nine novenas. Burning that lopsided candle—the “Donny” candle—, with that holy statue behind it. Begging God, and the saints . . . On the foyer door, a blue paper says the exterminator’s coming. You got roaches? You’re scared he’ll ask. But he’s rubbing his cock against your ass. Like magic, the right key pulls you in. His body is still molded to yours, as you stumble up the stairs. Even at 3 a.m., your hallway smells like neighbors’ food: chicken and Spanish rice. Your stomach growls. The last time you ate was that foul energy bar, nine hours ago. It didn’t fill you up then. Like chocolate caramel vitamins, it tasted. As he squeezes your breast, you fear you’ll never eat again. It’s what you want, you remind yourself. Who you . . . Inside, your own rooms reek of perfume, and the beer you spilled. Not Pine Sol, ‘cos why jinx yourself? For twelve Saturdays, you scrubbed the place, hoping to bring Donny home. But no Donny. “Wanna beer?” you slur, but he’s already in your fridge. As he cracks two beers—yours first,—he eyes what’s in there. You cringe. If he wants a snack, the rancid cold cuts might kill him. The baking soda needs changing. How could you forget that? “Gotta match?” he says. You don’t answer. But the smell of smoke says he found them. You bend over, turn on the music. “What’cha like?” He’s got a perfect view of your ass. Then he’s right behind you, grinding away. “Mmmmmm,” you say. This you can feel. “Dylan?” you say, as Dylan comes on. “Tangled Up in Blue.” Nice, how you set the scene. But you’ve been waiting so long . . . Nine days for each novena . . . Beers forgotten—his, anyway—you’re on the couch, pawing each other. Up close, you memorize each feature: bloodshot blue eyes, pug nose, yellow mustache, smeared with your lipstick. He’s really here, you think, it’s not a dream. His cock gets hard. Pinching your nipples turns him on, and he leers, demonically. You hate how it hurts, but force a smile. He’s ugly, you realize. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Nothing!” He believes you, when you unzip his fly. His leer returns. As he shrugs off his jeans and briefs, you’re dying for your beer. But where is it? “Oooooo,” you say, as it pops out: this small, stubby cock. Familiar, it looks, like a yearbook photo. But you swore his was bigger, last time. Still, you gobble it up. “Oh, man!” he gasps, as your lips and tongue go crazy. Like you’re that good. A song comes on, that you hate. Much as you love Dylan. You wish you could change it. Your jaw hurts. But you can’t stop sucking him! His cigarette has burned to a filter. It makes you feel sick. You wanted this, you remind yourself. You mash his balls, to turn him on more. Just one sip of beer, you think, would taste so good. Better than . . . “Lick my balls, man,” he says. You cringe. But you do it. “Mmmmmm,” you murmur. They’re hairy, the biggest you’ve seen, yet. Sweaty, and mushy. You can’t believe this is real. You, blind-drunk, on your knees. Your face in this guy’s nuts. Bored as hell. Sorry! You imagine God laughing. You asked for it. You can’t stand it anymore. No matter what, you’ve got to stop sucking. Even if he spits on you, and walks out. Or kills you. Just in time, he’s ready to rock. Smirking, he searches for a condom, as you rub your jaw. Still on the floor, you spot something scurry into a corner. Shit, you think. A roach? Last time, you did it on the floor (you think). But as he unwraps the condom, you crawl onto the couch. Across the room is your beer, but there’s no time to drink it. You spread your legs, and wait. Inside out, he slips on the condom. Like they all do, grimacing. Happens every time. The longer it takes to get the condom on right, the more his cock shrinks . . . This unbearable sadness hits you, suddenly. Like you learned someone died. It’s not far from the truth. ‘Cos from this point on . . . It’s all downhill. A short, sweet fuck, then out the door. Then that same emptiness . . . loneliness. All over again. With . . . every . . . guy. “Ahhhh!” he says, as he slides it in. And the pumping starts. You wish you could feel this. He’s so into it. With your feet on his shoulders, he drives it in deeper. Stands you on your neck. Some chicks scream, but you’re a writher and moaner. It’s all an act. Like you love this, you sound whimpery, like a baby. But your neck’s killing you. Please, you beg silently. Just . . . cum. He shoots fast, squeezing your ass. Hurting you. Digging hard into your flesh. Leaving bruise-prints for the next guy. You restrain a sob. If you cry in front of him, it’s over. Looking proud, he pulls out, and sits on his heels. As he removes that slimy rubber, you turn over, shut your eyes. Just for a minute . . . Then . . . sounds. A waterfall, somewhere, like in a dream. Or . . . nightmare. Donny washing his hands of you. At the kitchen sink, with Dawn detergent. Washing his cock, and balls, like you’re the sleaziest . . . Heart racing, you sit up, look around. You’re alone. “Don . . .” stops dead in your throat. You taste sleep. The CD’s still playing. Your beer is piss-warm, but you grab and swallow it, greedily. Then sit, clutching your neck, feeling tears brewing. “Oh, Donny!” you sob, when it hits you. How could this happen? How could he just leave? After such great sex? After you’d licked his balls? And liked it . . . You want to die. You want to. . . Real fast, before the CD ends, you hunt down that lopsided candle. That holy statue . . . Those matches he left with. |
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| Dec. 2009 |
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