Slumber Party by Todd Dwyer | Flickr
I awoke to the dog tickling my feet with his tongue. The sun was peaking in through the blinds. The girl in my bed was beautiful – from the sparkles between her blonde locks, to her blue eyes and matching socks. The only problem was I didn’t remember her name, let alone what game I could have played to get her home last night.
It was a cause for celebration no less; I wasn’t the best with the ladies. I was okay, better than most – I would start a conversation but after that I had no idea which direction to go. I’d think of clever things to say to get them to come home with me, but typically, nothing would happen. Smiles would be exchanged, sometimes even numbers, but more than likely the two of us would never see each other again.
I didn’t mind this much. I liked fucking, but a week or two without it never hurt, not too much. Never too much until you were in a room full of guys and we were all talking about what pussies we’d slewed. It helped to have a story that wasn’t a year old in these situations, and until the present moment I had not.
The dog was still licking my feet. I felt her socks rub against my hairy legs. She kissed me and I kissed back. With our eyes closed I hoped that I could remember something – a name, an event, a conversation an anecdote – but no luck. I couldn’t make out her name or how we met. Her tongue slipped over mine. The taste came back from a faraway place. I made a mental note: During blackouts you can’t remember faces or names but smells and tastes will stay the same.
“Hey,” She said removing her tongue from my mouth.
“How are you feeling, George?”
Fuck. Fuckity, fuckity, fuck. She knows my name.
I felt like an asshole, the biggest asshole ever born. The hangover was kicking in now, starting to make the head ache.
Why do people do the things we do to each other? Why do we hurt each other looking for love? Love for one night, for just one bleak moment? Are we that lonely? And does it really all have to do with procreation?
I’ll never know, and neither will she.
The only thing I do know, is she slapped me really hard when I called her Ashley.
Phoenix DeSimone is an emerging writer of prose and poetry from Virginia. He works as an Auto Mechanic, enjoys drinking and long walks on the beach with no one of particular interest. His work has been published in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, Cough Syrup Magazine, and is forthcoming in Avalon Literary Review and Children, Churches, and Daddies.