This is a short story that I’ve been writing… Hope you enjoy
I feel like Queen Victoria just took a dump on my face. No, seriously, I really do. Life has been one giant malfunction after the next. Those group therapy sessions were going so well; I thought we were making real progress. Is there really ever such a thing as recovered? I know that I’ve mumbled this line to myself more times than Paris Hilton’s snorted coke off a hooker’s chest. I don’t know how many times that is; though, a lot, I imagine. Why didn’t I see this coming? Of course, it happened again. My sixth hospitalization… SIXTH! I guess I should be glad there isn’t more.
Well, you aren’t reading to hear me bitch; you’re reading to know why I’m bitching. So here it is: the past twelve weeks. From episode to episode.
My name is Julia Vulpes, and I have problems.
Circle, circle; dot, dot; now I’ve got my cootie shot!
I hate group therapy sessions. Hate Hate Hate. They are the bane of my existence. Bane. B to the Bane. I’m not sure why we have them. Honestly, do they just want us to share how fucked up we all are? The only thing these group makes me is depressed.
But, I guess I’m a masochist—-‘cause I’m in the parking lot having just one last cigarette (which happens to be my third “last” cigarette of the day on my fifteenth “last” day of smoking) before I head inside. The meeting is inside one of those old community centers that smell like old people and body odor. I don’t mean a slight smell either. I mean a pungent combination of all those smells that you never get used to. It smells like summer camp: if that summer camp was a hellish place where you had to mingle with other socially awkward, mentally ill, and oddly dressed people.
Once inside, I realize that the meeting might not be as bad as I thought. The agency did a good job grouping attractive people together; I guess they knew I was coming. This may sound very vain among other things, but the prettier the people are who surround me; the more comfortable I feel. Wow, actually saying that makes me feel so shallow… Welcome to life though, right?
“Please have a seat everyone! It’s time to start!” said the gorgeous social worker.
And he is. Gorgeous that is: 6’3”, auburn hair, muscular but not TOO muscular, and with those cute thick rim glasses. I hate to make this a soft core so soon… But him plus whipped cream equals in my mouth. Please and thank you.
The meeting starts as they normally do: the participants introduce themselves and give a little about their lives.
“Umm, Hi there. I’m Julia. I went to school at UT. Steers and queers, am I right? I’ve recently been released from the hospital and one of the terms were that I come to these meetings. So here I stand with a faux facade of shit smeared across my face in hopes that none of you will pry into my life. Thanks.”
“That was… great, Julia. Thanks for opening up. It takes a lot doesn’t it guys to get up in front of people you don’t know and bare your soul.”
He initiates the clapping all around. What a scam. How can these groups seriously help anyone?
I turn my body on autopilot for the remaining hour and a half. Looking for an escape is never easy. I feel like I’m a mouse trapped inside a vodka filled vacuum cleaner. If only it was rum.
I’m walking back to my car when a hand touches my shoulder. I swing around to see kid who sat two seat down from me during the meeting. His name was Tim. He was bipolar. Killed a cat or something when he was eleven and his parents never really trusted him since. What a shame you know? They let rapist back out on the street, but the poor boy who may or may not have killed said cat is sent to the broken people meeting once a week to talk about the said feelings he may or may not have. You really never can tell with these people.
“Hey, I’m Tim.”
“Really now? Cause I couldn’t tell from that nifty grocery store name tag you forgot to take off.” I sneered back.
“Ha. Yeah. I guess that would be an easy way to tell. So what are you doing after the meeting?”
“Well, I was walking peacefully to my car before this little boy stopped me to start an idle conversation. How old are you anyway?”
“I’m 17, and do you want to do dinner? My treat.”
He smiled at me with the youthful eyes of innocence with a malevolent hint right behind the cornea. A boy you know that has the potential to be all sorts of trouble but doesn’t have enough of a past to know what kind. So what the hell? I’ll go to dinner with him. Free food is always up my ally.
“Sure. I choose the restaurant though.”
“Okay, how are we—-“
“Just get in.”
At approximately 9 PM, give or take a bottle of wine. We arrive at a local restaurant that I have been patroning for years in exchange for the restaurant contributing to my underage alcoholism. What a bartender will do for a taste of daddy’s credit card.
“So what do you want to eat?” He asks.
I turn to the waitress and immediately inform her that “I’ll have a redbull and sake followed up by… this shot… this shot… and he’ll have a crown and coke. Kay thanks.”
“Wow, I like a lady that knows what she wants.”
“And I like a guy without an ass smeared nose, suck up.”
“You’re one of a kind aren’t you?” He asks as I finish my redbull & sake.
“If you only knew.”
Three hours and a three hundred twenty-seven dollar bar tab later we walk out. I didn’t realize how drunk I was until he was on top of me in my back seat. He looked like a little boy in the face, but, now, I could feel how much of a man he really was pressing against my body. Fuck. I’ve become a cougar. I wonder what this boy’s mama would say if she walked up to my window now. “Um, excuse me. Ma’am. Will you please release my son’s hair and put your panties back on?” Trust me. From experience it would go very similar to that.
“I want you so bad.” He whispers to me as if we’re lovers who have been separated by a great war finally reuniting for one last time before our souls greet the roots of Yggdrasill.
“Just make sure you pull out,” is all I could say before the games began.
He must have been practicing for this moment a long time. Watching porn for technique and reading the thesaurus for words upon words that describe sensuality of the human body. He put his hands in all the right places: not to far down the hip or too tough on my chest (maybe just a little too tough). Exactly the way I like it.
Human anatomy has always been a disgruntled topic for me. Growing up I never had the perfect body. Small breast, bird legs, and a never ending supply of jew-fro kept me totally preoccupied. So, in college, I took the initiative to fix what I didn’t like. I hired a personal trainer. A personal dietitian. And, of course, a personal cosmetic seurgoen to fix everything I thought was broken. Too bad perfection is only skin deep. What we hide is only a small tip of the iceberg we fear. But him… He had the body. A swimmers build with just enough beef to make the stallions weight known. And that’s almost how I saw him: a huge sexual-centaur. From the waist up, he was only human, but, from the waist down, he was an animal. Girth has never been a pretty word in my vocabulary, and I have always steered away from it even when talking about machinery. This boy had girth and the length to match.
He ran his half-naked body over mine, kissing me forcefully and passionately. Using those hands that knew exactly where to go to make me almost squirm out from under him. His lips. Lord almighty what have I gotten myself into with this boy? Finally, he went in for the kill, and, when he did, I let out a scream. Thankfully, I caught it back in before he ever noticed. Thrusting and thrusting. Lord, he had to have been going at it for forty-five minutes when I couldn’t stand it anymore and yelled for him to climax when I did.
And he did. We laid there for another 15 minutes just holding one another like lovers do. He kept using those words he had been practicing in the mirror. Good intimacy is so hard to find. We cleaned up the best we could with what we had.
I dropped him back off at his car, and he kissed me goodbye like this was just another night for us. Like we have been together for years. Like tomorrow it was all going to happen again.
At least I didn’t stain my dress because I already had a big enough stain on my conscious. He let it slip to me during our last embrace, despite all the sexual prowess he seemed to possess, I was his first. I could almost cry. I’ve tainted someone else’s being with my filth. I knew I could never love him the way he was looking for. He was just another boy added to the list. I had no cruel intentions going into this, but I feel as though I’m the guilty party to a murder.
My name is Julia Vulpes, and I will break a heart.