Elk Pelt

I hadn’t showered in three weeks and reeked of cum. Stepped under hot water to shave an elk pelt from my sack then walked an hour to dance. I traipsed over the river then along it, my eyes met by melting skyscrapers warped with fumes of booze. I looked back to the water beside me, this natural flow jutted against the steel piled so high.

As I trekked I sucked the last drops of vodka snagged a month before. The dregs of that bottle poured from their plastic jug to this portable tin can. There was little left but it was a start. Enough to put the taste of bug spray on my tongue. The buzz of booze in blood.

I slipped into the little venue, skin littered with sweat from walking for miles. From an IV of spirits transforming my core. It was full but not packed. Forty souls drawn to dance and fuck and get fucked up. The room itself a tight, rectangular space that puts body on body if you squeeze to the bar or bathroom. A DJ in a dark corner nuked us all with noise. Dead cans littered every counter against the wall. I set to finding a full soldier then sucking it down. I inhaled one then swiped another. Drunken behavior decayed. Shifted to stupidity.

I danced with one girl and joked her clapping was off so she started snapping. I snapped back, staring into her eyes, wondering if it might go further while knowing it wouldn’t. I’m such an easy lay. Fuck it. Why not. But it takes two to make that happen.

We lost each other in the shuffle but soon I found another. Strangers linked by strobes and deep bass. She pressed lips to my lobe. An act of intimacy or way to combat aural assault. Depends on how you read it. She told me about Denver. I held her tight to my skin. When I complimented her wild moves she screamed “Well that’s the cocaine.”

I’m a square with stimulants yet hoped we’d step out and do lines in the alley shitter just blocks from this spot. An abandoned porta-potty I nested in often. Degenerate acts of horny alchemy. We’d snort off the seat that held my ass an hour before. Say fuck it and fuck in there too. Sweaty box sex. All these thoughts the fantasies of mind that rarely pass from that plane to reality.

I thought of the way expectation and experience never wed yet still I hope it’d happen. That we’d go home together. That ecstatic act a jackhammer against monotony. A sledge against the scars that spackle across your heart. Against all those accumulations of being alone when you don’t want to be alone. I thought if I shot her full of glue maybe she’d stick to me. Keep me around for a while, if only a night. Sex but a portal to simulacrums of intimacy.

The booze entered my balls. Beat against bladder. I stepped to the shitter then sucked down a can set atop the pube and piss laden urinal. Upon return I found my cocaine cowgirl off with someone else. Reality stomped fantasy with its well-worn boot. That was that. I sipped some more stolen booze then danced with myself, a contented swirl, these steps made for those alone. A pattern played on repeat, deep into the dark, each failing night.

If you’re a billionaire who likes my writing but can’t cum unless you help me afford more than dumpster food then you’re in luck. Ways to support my work can be found here: Support my Writing!