I really resent empty threats
Sex Acts And Emotional Problems
For New Year’s Eve Caitlyn went with Paula and Michael to a loft party in Bushwick. Two enormous warehouses faced off in the middle of McKibbin Street. The lights inside each reflected off the other’s windows, illuminating the block more than its own street lamps.
Inside, Caitlyn followed Paula behind Michael up a short flight of stairs to the dusty and scuffed halls of the second floor. Cream walls were coated with the lingering odor of daily cigarette and weed smoke. Laughter echoed from around the corner.
Bodies hovered near the open door to the main attraction. Michael paid for the girls’ entry and they received smiley faces in blue permanent marker on the backs of their hands. Once they were through the door Paula disappeared down a narrow metal staircase to the left. Michael pulled a flask from one of his pockets and took a long swig before offering the drink to Caitlyn.
He leaned close to her, his lips sweeping her ear as spoke.
“Wanna do some blow?” he asked.
Caitlyn swallowed the whiskey.
Paula was likely already deep in the middle of the dance floor. At the moment Caitlyn had little interest in joining her friend, and she assumed the same held true for Michael. He migrated further into the kitchen-slash-living room, lightly cradling Caitlyn’s fingertips atop his.
A wooden alcove housed a sofa with space for one more body on its end. Michael sat down and pulled Caitlyn onto his lap. The cushions of the old chair sunk backward so that his knees were roughly fifteen degrees above his waist. He wrapped his left hand over Caitlyn’s thighs, gripped her side with his right, and tugged her body closer to his.
Satisfied with their position, Michael retrieved a full vial from inside his jacket and held it out to Caitlyn. She twisted open the inch long brown glass jar as he made his hand into a fist before her face.
“Take as much as you want,” Michael said.
Under blue and green bulbs, beneath the slanted shadows of the loft’s mediocre wooden architecture, Michael’s eyes shone into Caitlyn’s with the directed intensity of a dramatic music video extra donning white contacts. Amid the throbbing funk and jungle rhythms booming below, and the vibrant cacophony of adults alive with the same freedom and abandon as their primate relatives swinging between trees, Michael’s boyish grin seemed absent its typical well-fitted mischief.
Instead, his daring playfulness was replaced by something warmer; something almost genuine. Caitlyn didn’t trust, much less desire, it. Michael had issues, and she knew he was only giving her drugs to insure their fucking later in the night. Maybe this time he wouldn’t pay in the morning.
She didn’t care either way.
Whatever Michael’s game, his winning meant Caitlyn needed to want his time and attention, money, sex, and drugs.
He needed her to be willing to compete for them, to play along, and succumb to his phony charms.
But she wasn’t going to because she didn’t care. Neither Michael’s intense glare, nor generous smile and possessive hands were going to change Caitlyn’s mind. As long as he was giving then she was taking, and it was no more or less than that.
Caitlyn dropped her head and snorted dime sized bump after bump from Michael’s wrist until the tip of her nose began to chill and the coat around her body felt nearly intolerably uncomfortable. As her supplier took his dosage she struggled to contain the incessant inclination to shift her weight on his legs.
“Cigarette,” Michael half-asked, half-declared.
Caitlyn stood without responding and they walked out to the crowded hall. An immediate left outside the apartment door revealed a brief stint of hall leading to the building’s elevator. This passage provided a modicum of quiet privacy as Michael handed Caitlyn a Parliament.
Instantly they were both smoking.
“You’re coming home with me tonight,” he told her.
“I know,” Caitlyn sucked the bland soap-like tobacco from her cigarette.
“Paula’s probably gonna get someone in the basement,” Michael continued. “Probably not gonna leave with us.”
“Not a big deal,” Caitlyn answered. “She’s not actually my girlfriend. You do realize that, right?”
“Yeah,” Michael nodded once. “You’re not really her type.”
“Too straight,” he answered. “She likes to fuck with real lesbians because they fall in love easy and then she pulls whatever she wants out of them while they try to make her love them. You’re not a lesbian, and you’re not that dumb.”
Caitlyn folded her left arm across her chest and rested her right elbow atop her left hand.
“You know,” she exhaled, “you’re like sorority sisters. You both talk pretty much exactly the same shit on each other.”
Michael stood directly before Caitlyn. He spoke into her face, increasing the volume of his voice as he finished his statement.
“Our brains are symbiotic,” he said.
Caitlyn exhaled against his body, and turned her attention toward a couple standing close to the main hall.
Michael tapped her chin with one finger and realigned her face with his.
“It’s almost midnight,” he told her.
“Don’t be awkward about it.”
“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you until you collapse from exhaustion. Then, I’m going to fuck you in your sleep and cover your entire body with my cum.”
“Is that a promise?” Caitlyn smiled. “Because I really resent empty threats.”
He motioned with his eyes to the American Spirit still barely burning in her right hand.
“Can I have that?”
“Sure,” Caitlyn held the cigarette to his lips.
Michael wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pressing his thumb into her palm as he inhaled.
Caitlyn glanced briefly at his crotch, where Paula’s left hand clutched his thigh tightly in place as she focused on adding a swirling tribal pattern to his oblique.
“Is this weird for you?” Michael asked.
Caitlyn brought her eyes to his.
“I’ve never been fired before.”
“No,” he said. “I meant watching Paula fake tattoo me naked.”
“But the world around us makes everyone go to school, get a job, and play by the rules of the field they’re in. And Art is a field too. And ‘the scene’ has a texture, but it lacks substance. You know, ‘the scene’ is cool. But it’s not Art. And it’s disgusting to me, to have to consider and carve out a place for myself inside of that, to have to play by society’s rules inside of Art. Creativity is a beast. I want to let it out and play with it. But society, the scene, is like this cage within a cage within a cage.”