This Town
This town was pure beauty -- in an unholy, twisted, fog-drenched, fucked sort of way. The sky never saw the sun. Just full dark -- no stars -- or cloud-covered and lit like a dim stage.
The days were long. The nights... longer.
I questioned why I came here -- like a goddamn broken record spinning, skipping in my mind.
Why?
What the fuck for?
These damp, mildew-stained streets led me nowhere, but somehow held a fucking promise. A pull. Something that made me -- forced me -- to keep going.
To keep searching through the stain that was this town.
I've spent a lifetime dreaming, feeling, wanting the heat that rips through my muscles at night when no one's looking.
But here...
Well, fuck. I've never felt so alive -- so crippled by my own devices, my own lure.
There's something caught between guilt and freedom in this place. A longing. A temptation that stirs in me like the wind stirs the stink in these streets.
It's an awakening -- a moment stretched out in time that eats at me with every breath I take.
It's absolute need. Dread. Desire.
It's fucking lust.
The nights?
Not a train. Not a whistle. Not a bark. Not a problem.
Problems were just a state of mind anyway.
I thrived on leftover items from a shitty, leftover burgh.
I pooled resources -- weapons and smokes. My holy trinity.
Despite the lack of company, I cruised backyards, alleys, tree-covered parks, cemeteries.
The hospital was full of meds -- antibiotics, painkillers, stuff they used to lock up.
The police station? Maps, guns, and... well, recreational drugs.
I rode out storms in motels, abandoned houses, old malls, and busted-up restaurants.
When things got dicey, I played dead -- or ran like a fucking coward.
There was no need to play the hero here.
No need to do anything but survive.
Survive... freely.
Monday.
The rain split the town in two -- a fierce swell on the north side and a goddamn typhoon to the south. I got caught in the former for longer than I'm proud to admit. I knew it was coming, knew it was about to unleash -- but distractions come easy here. I chose the havoc. The chaos.
Looting vans near the river.
I ducked under the awning of a local record store, smashed the front door, and got the hell out of the wind and rain. Like most places here, the city's power was fickle -- like it picked and chose what I had access to.
To my surprise, the record player had juice.
I put on Vera by Pink Floyd and let it play from there -- haunting and beautiful.
Like a soundtrack to my new lifestyle.
The fog rolled in thick and slick -- couldn't see out the windows.
Hidden by a storm that felt like it could sweep away my sins... if I just gave it time.
Like any good storm.
I browsed the rock section, flipped through some classics, some oldies... but it wasn't until I hit the pop bin that I found her:
Raylee Steele.
Never heard of her, but damn -- the cover looked straight out of Playboy.
Twenty-two years old. Strapless dress. Perfect tits. Legs like polished chrome.
She looked like sin wrapped in vinyl.
I stripped naked right there like it was center stage. Held the record cover in my hands but didn't dare look -- old masturbatory trick from my teenage years. I focused on the front door instead, the deadbolt still unlocked, the blank stare of security cameras, the posters of beautiful women on the walls, all judging me with glossy eyes. I spread my legs and started working my cock.
Eyes closed, I let Raylee take over. Her breath on my skin. Her lips traced mine. Hands down my back. Legs wrapped tight around me. In my mind, I sucked her tits -- drank from them -- felt her delicate folds slide around my cock and squeeze. She pumped with those hips. Gripped my shoulders and dug in her nails. Bit me. Rode me. Fucked me.
When I was close, I opened my eyes and finally stared at her. Like a countdown. Faster. Harder. Tighter. Then my cock swelled in my hand and I came -- a fat, violent burst -- right over her pretty face, her tight body. Soaking the cardboard sleeve, soaking her.
The hours rolled by slowly, like ice trying to melt in the storm's cold -- too stubborn to move, too frozen to quit. I fell asleep behind the pay counter as Bob Seger sang me something to dream about. When I awoke, the fog had lifted from the windows but not the streets. I dressed, put a rhythm in my step, and got back to those vans; when it was time to work, I rarely fucked around.
***
Tuesday.
The air was heavy. Sleet came down at a slant, turned to rain, then gave way to snow -- two inches of calm blanketing the town. The weather here didn't give a damn about the planet's tilt; seasons didn't arrive in months -- they came in hours. Still no sun. But the buildings and high-rises did their job, blocking the worst of the wind. It swirled overhead and stayed the fuck off my shoulders.
For that, I was grateful.
