sometimes

She doesn't want words.
She doesn't want consolation.
She just wants to fuck.
A simple transaction. An operation free of entanglement.
I'll go inside. Outside. Multiple explosions will happen. Internally. Externally.
Dark bodies will shift and sweltry mouths will sound, poetry attempting to compose stanzas, some kind of escape.
My three year "friendship" with Julie has never been built on trust or companionship. Our association has always been based on easy sex, cocaine, booze, petty theft, you name it. You know, the quality components of a "friendship."

I want words.
I want change.
I want consolation, at least conversation.
I need to speak about the aircrafts crashing inside my head. Passengers are bleeding, helpless. And the oxygen masks are absent.
I want to assist them. I want to kill myself.
A simple transaction. An operation free of entanglement.
A cold black pistol sleeps under my driver's seat waiting to rise from its slumber and sing the sweetest song of salvation.
An explosion could happen. Internally. Externally. Planes crash all the time.
And Julie -- she just wants to fuck.
She's a doll and she has that look in her eyes -- again. Fire. Lust. That undeniable look like a XXX Fuck Goddess ("She could be yours").
She tells me to pull down my pants while she does things with her clothes: she's unbuttoning things, loosening straps, rubbing her pussy. It's all a blur.
My head is a garbled broadcast of psychiatric medications (I'm trying to make changes in my life), banks are flooded with man made chemicals and somewhere back home, where it's nice and safe, is a sheet from the pharmacy: SIDE EFFECTS: IMPOTENCE, CHANGE IN SEXUAL DRIVE. Back home everything is quiet and warm. Conan O'Brien is beginning his opening monologue and people are laughing; people are comfortable; Max Weinberg acknowledges a wisecrack and attacks the drums, his hands move like magic wands, remarkable.
Julie speaks like a 900-number girl, so sexy, she says, "Pull down your pants, baby. You know our routine. I'm high and I want to taste your cock. C'mon baby. Let me see it. I want it. Now."
I know this won't work and now isn't the time for a "I've seen the light" bullshit speech, either. My entire body is shaking. I'm killing time but time is not to be had.
I say, "Julie, look, you don't understand what's going on. I'm, I'm a mannequin and the plastics in my head make my useful parts useless. You, you don't understand."
"Wow. What are you on? You'll have to give me a taste but first lets see what my hot little mouth can do. You know what I can do, baby. I'll give until you're empty and all used up -- and then I'll come back for more and make you give it to me, baby. So c'mon. What are you waiting for? I'm so fucking horny."
With sweaty hands I unbuckle my belt.
With shaky fingers I unbutton my jeans.
I pull down my blue denim and black underwear exposing the dead machine.
Under 1000 kilowatts of burning bulbs there is nothing to hide. My eyes dart like a thief looking for a quick escape, but the exits are zero in number. Her thin body is on top of me. On top of it. That dead thing. Lifeless. Useless. So fucking pathetic.
And she's so amazing. A XXX Fuck Goddess and "She could be yours" but not tonight. You don't work. You're a vain accessory in the dimly lit interior of an automobile.
I hear a siren: The sound of captivity. I'm hoping for a pair of cold silver handcuffs, iron bars, a mug shot and a piss stained floor for a bed.
I hear a siren: The sound of safety. I'm hoping for clean white sheets, a warm safe room, an IV of clean fluids and supervision hours 24 in number.
Some method of escape.
But the sound dissipates.
Her desirous eyes turn away from my lifeless cock and focus on the only sign of life: a rapid thumping lashing from the center of my bare chest.
Like a ghost she slowly lowers herself on top of my trembling body and places her lips near my ear and whispers something, something I need to hear. Like a feather to my cracked lips she kisses me once, twice, again and again.
She quietly pulls the sleeping beauty from under the driver's seat and checks the cold chamber -- two tiny rockets silently wait.
She holds onto me.
I hold onto her.
And time becomes irrelevant.
A simple transaction.
An operation free of entanglement.
We don't want words.
We don't want consolation.
Just some kind of escape.
The sun steadily raises over the frozen city.
Our body temperatures slowly drop.
And snow begins to fall.

mc