I.

“PHIL’S LODGING HOUSE, LIGHTS ON 24/7! DIAL 9-223 FOR ROOM SERVICE,” a handwritten typewriting paper on the wall informed. “WE HAVE STEAK AND COFFEE. PLEASE DO CHECK OUR MENU UNDER THE TABLE! AFFORDABLE PRICES. NO ALCOHOL FOR MINORS.”

He reached out for the phone, positioned a finger on the button labeled “9,” then hesitated. No steaks for tonight, coffee or anything else the dipshit menu offers.

He sat on the single bed and glanced at the clock, a freebie from a fastfood joint with the logo as background for hands.

Too late for sleep now.

He looked at his erect, salmon-colored dick, its head gleaming like a motherfucking crystal ball set against the glare of an ornate bedside lamp. He started on the shaft and stroked his otherwise rare boner. He tried to recall her, when she was naked with him and her nipples were hard and she was wearing one of those little panties with tulip prints, one that would remind you of virginity and youth and innocence found and lost.

He tried to remember how wet she was underneath that prepubescent-looking underwear despite her rejecting pleas, how she slowly took the precious undergarment off and moved on top of him sans tears.

He looked at his penis again, but now it has become limp and flaccid, as if his balls were lilac. His palms and armpits were now wet with perspiration, as moist as that cunt he has brought into flights of fancy upon his bald skull.

Then he curled up, stared at his proud, shiny, sharp police badge, set it aside, went into full fetal position, and allowed his tear ducts to just fuck it and go.

Please, she will come back. She will. She knows where you are.

He cried the whole night away, cried until he imagined his tears were blood, cried for himself and what he had lost.

II.

The front desk clerk, Jimmy, chewed his already-cracked lip. He looked nervous, so nervous that he felt like defecating and pissing and laughing simultaneously.

“I’m sorry Ma’am, but there’s no Arnie Sunday in here,” he tried again, hoping that this predatory-looking witch of a woman in front of him would not eat his face or gouge out his eyes or cut off his lisping tongue, as her nose was millimeters away from his.

“I know he’s here and I know you’re hiding him,” the witch screamed. “Regular customer, hah! I know it. I know and you fucking know. So get him out. I want to see my fucking husband. I want to fucking see that bastard!”

Jimmy cringed at that last word, the syllables stretched and sounded like “baaaaahhhhs-teeeerd!,”  too high-pitched for effect. He looked around for Phil, the lodging house’s owner, scanning the place for the trademark bowler hat and a pipe forever imbibed in a mustache-covered mouth, but there’s no help but God.

“WHERE THE FUCKING HELL IS HE?” The banshee wailed.

“Easy here, he’s just a kid.”

Jimmy met the eyes of his savior, the mighty Phil. He gave him a weak smile.

“What do we have here?” Phil asked. Then, realizing he seemed impolite, he cleared his throat. “Good morning, madame. May I help you?”

The woman took a step backward, finally allowing Jimmy to breathe, and gave him a look Jimmy can only describe as that of an agitated alpha male gorilla, if you’ve ever seen one bare its teeth and its huge powerful mouth.

“Look, Mister, my daughter has been missing for a week, and I know Arnie’s been nailing some filthy tramp in this shithole, so you see, do you understand what kind of situation this is? Do you have any idea? Do you even own a fucking heart, Mister? A soul, perhaps?” The woman screeched throughout the tirade, but calmer otherwise.

Then she took a long breath, fixed the topmost button of her blouse, slipped a calling card, walked away and while slamming the door shut, she muttered something Jimmy didn’t understand, but Jimmy knew that she was on the verge of tears and wished he had more patience.

III.

She stretched her legs and leaned them against the wall, circles of cigarette smoke floating like bubbles from her mouth. She looked at him, asleep and tired and drained, while she’s all alive and alert, if a little bit dazed in the afterglow.

She ran her finger through his arm, felt his veins.  He stirred. She puffed. He’s still. She’s fucked. Big time. Big fucking time, because screw it, Mom doesn’t know and care what Daddy’s doing but yes, Daddy loves beautiful Lily, so he said every time he whispers in her ear and caresses her thighs and her pussy and her budding breasts and her stomach and her hair.  Daddy knows the law, Daddy knows her skin and bones and beauty. It hurt, yes, and it’s confusing, and it felt good, and it doesn’t feel right but oh Lily knows no one can love her like her Daddy can. But no, Daddy can’t know about Michael. She’d die for Michael, but she’d kill for Daddy.

Fuckity fuck, fuckity fuck, suck my pussy kiss my cunt. I ain’t coming home Ma, I’m hitting home run with my Pa. Fuckity fuck, fuckity fuck, my boyfriend’s got a sick lollipop. But boys oh boys will hurt me so, boys oh boys will say I’m a ho. So fuckity fuckity fuck, Daddy’s gonna make their nuts pop. 

Lily squeezed Michael’s arm for the nth time, then seeing no response, she let go. No, she can’t run away with him, not when she doesn’t believe his crap he called love. No, and if she did, and whether he breaks her heart or not Daddy will find him and hurt him either way. No, no man is good enough for her. They’re all the same. They all want to love you and hurt you. Just like Daddy. No, Daddy’s different, he loves Lily. No.

No, she wants to reject love. She wants to be loved. She wants him. She wants him not. She loves him, hates him. Loves Michael and Daddy, hates them both. Men.  What does the world know?

The ceiling and walls, both white and pure though old, stared at her as she stared back.

She has to run. Not with Michael. Not with anyone. Alone.

She picked up her favorite tulip printed panties, wore them, wore all that could cover her soul and youth and being.  She kissed Michael briefly, headed for the door, determined, turned on the ignition in her car, thought of a place to spend the night, somewhere comfortable, somewhere men could see for what she really is, somewhere –

she turned left and headed for Phil’s.

Fuckity fuckity fuck, fear is but a powerful enemy. Fuckity fuckity fuck, Father, forgive me for I have sinned.

(c) 2012

Vivien Marie A. Lopez

Protected by Copyscape Duplicate Content Detection Tool

Go. Moan. Scream. Tell me if you like it. Make some noise.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s