How do I feel for thee, you ask? You motherfucker. You son of a bitch. Look at my hands you prick. Look at them. And you smile, act all confused. What the fuck is the matter with you? No. I know, right? It’s supposed to be all good. You fuck me, I fuck you, you fuck someone else, but all that should matter now is how you feel for me, and how I feel for you. Because what you and I have together is supposed to be stronger than this, all this fucking, each other and others. That’s what you think, right? You say you want to participate in life with me, that these digressions are nothing more than that, that you would kill yourself for me. Well go ahead. Do it for me. Please. I hope you burn your hands for me, like I did for you, burn your head. I want to watch it. That would be smart of me. Come on. Let’s dance one last time. Let’s fuck one last time. Let’s embrace these pulsating lights we love. The gray. The black. The bass, bumping, the floor shaking, our skin, sweating, our minds throbbing. We made love to those beats. We timed our thrusts perfectly. That’s what you loved about me, you used to say, my rhythm, our synchronization, our fluidity. It was more beautiful than anything you’d ever experienced. You said that to me, panting like a little boy. Like the first time, right baby? The party on Irving Park. It was a cold night. It snowed like I’ve never seen it before. The city came to a stop. The Puerto Ricans were the first to be out shoveling and marking their spots. I saw you across the room, smoking and acting like you didn’t care. I wanted you right away. You knew I did. We danced, we were hot. I knew we were going to fuck that night. I wanted it. I knew you were going to cum inside me in that hallway, I didn’t care that others were watching. We were high, and in love right away. You said you’d never experienced anything like that. Neither had I. Let’s do it again baby. Just like that. Right now. Come on. Kiss me. I want to suck on your tongue. Lick my neck. Pull my hair. Bend me over. Come on. How do I feel for thee? That’s how I feel. What, why are you so worried now? Bring that smile back baby, make me feel diseased. You know you want it, more than I do. I’m ready to procreate, baby, with you. And then, do it for me, prove it to me, that you love me, like you said you would. Shed some skin. Stab yourself. Tear your hair out. I’ll help you. I want to see pain on your face, along with that wicked smile. Come on, please, don’t stop smiling.
The lights pulsated, gray, then black. Heads bobbed all around them. He left. Her eyes rolled back into her head.
Victor David Giron is a writer who lives in Chicago, IL. He's the head honcho over at Curbside Splendor, an independent publishing company based out of Chicago that aims to publish solid writing, often with an urban tilt. He is the author of the coming-of-age novel Sophomoric Philosophy. Buy it. He's got a couple little kids who seem pretty rad and he likes The Sonics. No word yet on if he likes the restaurant Sonic.
Contribute your own story to Our Band Could Be Your Lit.
Next week: A story based on "Life Passed Me By" by Super Stereo, as suggested by writer Monica Rodriguez.
Click the button below to submit this story to the StumbleUpon search engine.