(INDEX)
Why does she chuck her goods out on display after rejecting my advances? As a torture device it’s effective.
I’m squirming.
Could it be that she’s comfortable enough with me already to be getting blind drunk and laying about the place nearly naked? 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. My sneaky eyes aren’t to be denied and they drift back to drink in the rise and fall of her chest. I shun the voices telling me to touch that soft flesh. Her non-participation would make it too distasteful even for me.
Letting out a long held breath in frustration, I reach for her robe with a finger and thumb, being very careful not to touch the skin beneath. Draping the material over that full, soft breast puts it out of harmful sight. My mind can harbour a memory of it for later.
Through drugged darkness, a misty realization glows. She’s offered herself to me, self-anesthetised to spare herself the details. She’s scared of expulsion if my needs aren’t met.
My inferiority complex is already built on rejection. But this manner of payment cuts me much deeper. A debt does exist here, but it is I who owe her for saving my life. Twice. And what have I done in repayment other than suit myself and ignore her. I haven’t even said thanks properly.
I refuse to become yet another parasite, the world’s foulest inhabitant, benefiting from another’s unwilling body. This final comparison is the ultimate mood killer.
Decision made, I sink into a regular state of hard-done-by depression. I sorrily dissect the unfairness of the situation. We are at the end-of-days. The last man and last women on earth always hit it off. The ingredients are all here. The chick is a stunner: 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 so what went wrong?
It’s not like I plan to repopulate the world; I just want to have sex. Just one more time before I die..
I’m gutted by the fact this Parasite ridden world has allowed the last man and last woman to fall into categories of fat, selfish addict and incurable dyke.
Fate and Karma clink glasses and laugh.
Sadistic bastards.
As I know full well, temptations are best kept deep out of sight. I bend to pick up my loosely wrapped present and overbalance, almost falling onto her. My washed out chivalry chides me for wishing I’d stumbled further.
I carry the warm, boneless body into bedroom she’s chosen to make her own. Holy shit! It’s a bit different to the bomb-site I sleep in. She’s worked wonders; showing 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 rummaging through for refills. Fruitless searches for toilet paper or a novel to read will no longer exasperate me. Not in this room anyway.
I make a mental note to point out the mess in the other six bedrooms to her that need similar treatment.
Blearily I wonder if I can pull back the sheets with my foot while holding her. I’m prohibited from performing this feat by the Circus Union whose dues I have neglected. I lay her on top of the coverlet. Her robe falls wide open again and I take a long look as payment for services rendered.
Only then do I cover her with a spare blanket and hope my sensitivity and restraint is noticeable tomorrow, or I’ll have passed up a stupendous release for nothing.
Carnally neutralised, I brush long, soft black hair from smooth, tanned cheeks. She groans softly at my touch then snores in soft pixie-like breaths.
I smile sadly, wistfully imagining she dreams of me. I leave her door ajar in case she vomits and then collapse back on the couch, emotionally drained.
All this wrestling with temptation has worn me out. But my resistance in straying from the twisty path of righteousness delivers me to an elusive, peaceful clearing. Strange, protective feelings wake from long, undisturbed slumber. I guess I’ve applied for a big brother role. I can fill that role amicably enough although the resume would be better directed for the position of a self-absorbed, sex-starved, drug-addled, mental case. I’ll take the new job mainly for the title, but I may not honour the spirit of the contract.
And by Christ, those porno movies are going to get a workout.
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