25 September 2008

Fatal Cure - Chapter 33

Why chuck goods out on display if the likes of me aren’t an intended customer? As a torture device it’s effective.
I’m squirming.
Couldn’t be that she’s comfortable enough here to be walking around naked already. Naive she might be, but I’d give her credit for not being that stupid. I haven’t exactly portrayed the traits of a reliable, supportive flatmate.
I turn my head away. Drifting eyes sneakily slide around, drinking in the rise and fall of her chest. Letting out a long held breath in frustration, I reach for her robe with a finger and thumb, careful not to touch skin. Draping the material over that full, soft breast puts it out of harmful sight. The mind harbours a memory for later.
Through the drugs darkness, a misty realization glows. It’s an offering. She’s self-anesthetised to spare herself the details in nightmares later. Scared rejection will result in expulsion. Or rape and death. Or death and rape.
My inferiority complex rejects a more flattering judgement on myself even though I’m putting words in her mouth.
She’s got to be one scared little girl to lay herself out like this. Not even a dopey new-age chick expects chivalry from a gun-toting drug abuser. The question remains, how could I take such a sumptuous payment when the real debt is one owed to HER for saving MY miserable life TWICE? I’ve often put thanks and apologies in the too-hard basket. And look where it’s gotten me this time. A gorgeous woman throwing herself at me. What evilness exists that could twist this fantastic rarity into such a bad thing?
I’m on a knife’s edge.
After listening to demonic voices telling me how pleasurable her flesh would be, the sterile state of her participation, and obvious distaste for the act, hoses lust’s fire. Tagging this living love-doll would damage both of us. She’d become a self-reviling sperm repository. I’d become another parasite, the world’s foulest inhabitant, benefiting from another’s unwilling body.
The comparison is the ultimate mood killer.
Decision made, I sink into a regular state of hard-done-by depression. I sorrily dissect the unfair situation to find its Sam-hating core. Admittedly I’m not the handsomest man but I’ve watched movies and read tales that roughly cover these ‘end-of-days’ events. There’s a common theme throughout. The last man and last women on earth ALWAYS hit it off.
The chick is supposed to be a stunner. Got that bit right. A bit of makeup and Kristine could be on a catwalk. The bloke is a muscle-bound genius. I can lift three cartons of beer and operate a door knob with my knee at the same time. Everything’s in order there too. So what went wrong?
I don't want the responsibility of procreating and repopulating the world; I just want to have sex. Just one more time before I die. And for the ten thousandth time, it has to be painlessly.
Maybe the unwritten rules governing proceedings in this parasite ridden world, don’t allow for the last man and last woman to fall into the categories of fat, selfish addict and incurable dyke.
Fate and Karma clink glasses and laugh.
Sadistic bastards.
Temptations are best kept deep out of sight. I bend to pick up my loosely wrapped present and overbalance, almost falling onto her breasts. More perverted chivalry chides me for wishing I’d stumbled further.
I carry the warm, boneless body into bedroom she’d chosen to nest in. Holy shit. It’s a bit different to the bomb site I sleep in. She’d worked wonders, showing a talent for organisation and cleanliness. The bed is crisply made. Neat piles of supplies are stacked against walls instead of the half metre deep quagmire I’d become used to rummaging through. Fruitless searches for toilet paper or a novel to read will no longer exasperate me in this room.
I need to point out the other six bedrooms that need the same treatment.
Blearily I wonder how to pull back the sheets with my foot while holding her. I’m prohibited from performing this feat. Circus Union dues aren’t paid up. I put her on top of the coverlet. Her robe falls wide open again. I take a long look.
Payment for services rendered.
Only then do I cover her with a spare blanket. She’d better have some way of knowing her Holy Bits are still sacred tomorrow or I’ll have passed up a stupendous release for nothing.
With carnally neutralised intent, I brush long, soft black hair from smooth, tanned cheeks. She groans softly at my touch then snores in pixie-like breaths.
I smile sadly, wistfully imagining she dreams of me. I leave her door ajar so I can listen for a vomiting spell, and collapse back on the couch, emotionally drained.
All this thinking and decision making has worn me out. Not straying from the twisty path of righteousness has delivered me to an elusive, peaceful clearing. Strange, protective feelings are wakes from long undisturbed slumber. I guess a big brother is what she’s applying for. All that’s available to fill that role is a self-absorbed, sex-starved, drug-addled, mental case. I’ll take the job for the title but may not honour the spirit of the contract.
Those porno movies were going to get a workout.

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