pussy
a short story by B. College Sucks Publications
part one
2
For the youth.
3
i’m completely trashed
hiding in the bathroom at this
party filled with people from Twitter and Instagram who try too hard. With my hands on my face, I can’t recall how I got to this very point in my 20 years of life. Drunk. About to throw up. Anxious. Depressed. Horny. Spiraling out of control. Maybe it was the familiar week of being uninspired, overworked, under payed, and lazy. All of which are becoming a blur. I need to get out of my feelings and regather myself so the coke heads can stop banging on the door. They bombard me before I can even twist the door handle and once again, I’m in a sea of people.
I make sure I have my phone. You can’t leave shit anywhere in Chicago without someone stealing it. I text my friend and ask her if she’s cool with leaving now. I am in no condition to ride the CTA home alone at 2:45 am.
every time i go out
I remember why I hate going out.
Everyone just takes pictures of each other. Charges their phones. I’m never comfortable. I have to wait to go home. I miss my bed. Small talk sucks. I don’t get it. I find a quiet spot in the kitchen to wait for Mya to be done riding the dicks of not-so-good, very local, `up and coming’ rappers, whom she uses to look cool on Instagram. I almost completely dodged the rapper bullet tonight until, speaking of the devil, one comes and invades my drunken anti-social corner.
“Hey. I think we follow each other on Twitter.” “True,” I shade. He’s too close to my face. “You smoke?” “No,” I shade harder. But I actually don’t smoke. It makes me feel like I’m in a parallel universe and I can’t handle it. I’m also too broke to fund a habit. “Do you know me?” No answer. I look at my phone. “Can you take down my number?” At this point, I’m trying to break free. I’m insulted that he would try to take advantage of my vulnerability, especially in distressed jeans and a Hollister t-shirt while I’m slaying in my pink slip dress from Village Discount Thrift and black heel booties. We are not a match.
I say “No thanks.” And squeeze people, and out the back door. loud it was on the back porch, needed fresh air, so I make my where they park their bikes.
I checked my phone and it’s only been 9 minutes. It’s on 6%. At least I’m alone. It’s a beautiful summer night. And I’m too faded to worry about school and my shitty retail job in a couple of hours.
I’m in a daze. I have the spins. I can’t close my eyes.
I hear footsteps in the form of heels and the smell of tobacco inching closer and closer to where I’m standing.
right past him, through a group of I didn’t realize how crowded and but I also didn’t realize how much I way down to the side of the house
“You smoke?”
this time not a rapper,
but an elegant silhouette of a
young woman, I’m assuming in her 20s like myself. Her aroma was mixed with lavender, cigarettes, and an old car, and she had a short bob haircut. Even from the two seconds she entered my surroundings, I noticed she carried herself like a goddess. Coming out of my daze, “Yeah. Sure,” I reply. I smoke cigarettes on special occasions, being too drunk is one of them. She hands it to me almost to show off her beautiful manicure as it shined in the security light. I hit it the square and start coughing profusely. Typical. I can never hold it together. “Are you good?” She asks me softly, almost promiscuously. And as she follows the light I start to grasp a better look at her. I passed the cigarette back and she leans back against the fence and blows smoke into the air. It felt as if she was telling me a secret. She looked like she was mixed with Asian and Nigerian, I didn’t feel the need to ask. Her thin yet curvy figured flourished in the short, black Ralph Lauren spaghetti- strap dress with white outlines she has on. Her hair was black and curled where it reached the middle of her neck. She was truly a beautiful person. I feel belittled in her presence. I think she knows that.