myrtle

On the table there were a couple of bottles, the normal stuff, the hard stuff and the soft stuff. Handles and some beer bottles and a couple little film canasters that held the weed stuff. But I didn't want the weed stuff, I mean, yeah, of course I did, but those boys looked at me and I looked at them with the eyes and they could all tell that I wanted that harder stuff. There were always too many boys there, not enough girls, not enough girls like me ever. The place smelled like all the other places, looked like all the other places. There were some old moldy couches that someone found out in the trashcan and there were people sitting there with the pipe and you could hear the light and the pull and all that comes out and then, of course a little bit of the cough that let's you know you did it all right. If you went around those moldy old peed on couches you could find your way into the kitchen. That's where the bottles were, bottles on the table, shot glasses, some dirty plates with old dry spaghetti all stuck to the sides. When I come in it's first to the bottles.
Some little boy in black pants and a ripped up shirt would see me walk up and say something like, "Hey little girl, come on over here and have a drink with me". First off that's all fine and good, we're all friends and I can count out all the people sitting around being lazy and dirty and drunk and high and whatever other broken thing that they are, but then all those boys begin pouring more and more of that ice tea down my throat and people start coming from everywhere. Just coming out of the walls. The drunks keep getting drunker and the girls just keep getting sloppier and sloppier, and I'm sloppy too. The difference between me and those girls is that they travel in packs, whole herds. They like to wear designer Gucci things cut up to look grungy. I'm not those girls because I'm all alone, I'm all alone with the boys who pour the drinks and the boys who call you back into the back room. I'm not wearing Gucci or anything expensive or really anything at all and they know that. These are the kinds of boys and the kinds of places that seem really stupid, just really stupid and dumb and pointless, but oh they'll trick you because they've got their secrets too. These are the kind of boys that hang out at these kinds of places every night and they get so drunk and down and dirty that they turn primal. Animals. They want to fight and each night you go into that house you can see the blood on the floor and the refrigerator, like rust and smeared and too much, just too too much. And someone will be laughing and someone will be sitting there with their mouth all hanging open and the red stuff coming out in lines of spit. They get primal and all that they can think about is getting some little thing with her legs and arms pinned down like a spider beneath them. I told you though, these boys aren't stupid, they know that the girls in the Gucci don't just peel on out of those tight pants. They know those girls have some Daddies with guns and money, and that those girls like boyfriends, those girls don't want boys who smell like blood and piss and booze making an art nuoir film out of thier bodies. That's why these boys turn to little girls like me. Girls in hoods, with long sleeves and dried out eyes because they all know what girls like me end up doing late at night, or not so late. They get real close, hand starts running over the ripped up jeans and then they lean in and say something in a whisper that sounds a little bit like this, "Mmm, why don't you come on with me to the other room?" And there's the booze and the blood and the fingers feeling around the pieces of my pants so of course I can't resist and I say, "What do you have to offer?"
That's where the real show begins.
There's no more big group of laughing people with drinks and confused kids with their hair matted up trying to talk about politics but really discussing dish detergent. There's me with this new boy, someone with skinny legs and arms and cheeks that are kind of sunk in a little. His hair is black and dirty and longer than mine, it smells like oil and sweat when he gets close to me. He gives me the smile and I can see the yellow on his teeth from cigarettes and forgetfulness.
"mmmm"
He starts pushing me into the hallway, pushes my back up against the wall and slides his thumbs down to my hips. I know what all of that means, it's simple. I push up my chin and bite onto his lip hard to try to break it open, but he pulls away. He knows I mean buisness. He knows I'm just as primal as him.
It's back in the room then, bed doesn't matter. All that matters is the floor and the way that our pants get unzipped and then pulled down. His black hair starts swinging around me, trying to be violent, but I'm vicious and I've learned how to pull my knees tight together.
"What have you got?"
So he reaches down into his tight little pockets and pulls out some kind of chemistry lab medication that he presses between my chapped up lips.
"Do better than that."
So he takes out two more of those little babies and holds me by the jaw, this way I'm down on my knees and he's above me with my little chin and jaw grabbed in his hand and he pushes those popped pills between my lips, just like communion time.
"Mmmmm."