Over the Hill Tramp

"So what does it take?" the annoying bitch asked. I tore my eyes from the specimen I was admiring and shot her a look. "I mean to fall in love with a guy. What does it take?" I sighed and looked around. It was back in the 80's, fag hags still had a lot to learn. The men were hot and solid, and although the diseases were beginning to become rampant, I didn't care. It was after the nice little fags and their sweaters tied around their necks, but before the bitches we have now, where anyone can be gay and anyone can be out. I tossed my bangs out of my eyes. It wasn't the guy on the Olympic swim team, or the guy with his little housewife twink next door. These were the gays that I remember, with the thick hair and the handlebar moustaches. The ones who might slap you around like their daddies did, would fuck you good and make you feel it for weeks. We didn't finger, and we didn't love.

"A chocolate dick that ejaculates money," I told her absently, drumming my fingers on the table. She laughed awkwardly.

"Oh. That's funny," she said. "But don't you ever want to settle down?" I snorted, but it was so faked my drink didn't even budge.

"What for? I hate kids," I told her. "And I hate the petty ideas breeders have about relationships."

"But do you want to be an over the hill tramp?" she asked. I laughed. Sometimes it was easy to forget her charm.

"How old do I look?" I asked. She looked at me a scant. I knew it was hard, knowing how old I really was.

"In all honesty about ten years younger than I know you are," she told me dryly. I smirked.

"Exactly. I still got a few more years till I start sagging. And really, what faggot expects to live to next month?" I stood and walked out to the dance floor. My target welcomed me, and our hips locked. After a minute of dancing and dry humping I led him to the bathroom. He threw me down on the counter, stripping my pants to my knees. No one wore underwear here. He sucked me briefly, and I pulled away. I bent over the counter and spread my legs, and he was suddenly in me in one sweep. I gasped and closed my eyes. It's difficult to describe sex for me. I attempted, in my younger days, to explain it as the best thing possible: not having to think. But that was stupid, because most people didn't get it. Sex flips a switch for me: I'm no longer smart, no longer damaged, no longer me. I'm a vessel to be filled with ecstasy. And fill me this one did. He pounded me until we ejaculated together, there in that bathroom. It was wild, sweaty, and passionate.

That man left as I was still bent over and catching my breath. Someone else came up behind me. He grabbed my penis and stroked me, sliding his already hard shaft between my cheeks. I gasped and his lips were at my ear. "Don't ask for consent, I've no idea what that is," I groaned, and he shoved in. I gasped. He was huge. I loved it. He rode me hard, pulling my ponytail and calling me a slut. I felt almost positive my nails left gouges in the counter. I was sweaty and desperate, and I didn't even know the first thing about the man driving his thick rod into me. All I knew was that it was happening, which was enough.

.

I don't sleep anymore. But it's all right, no one expects me to. I sit next to him as he dozes and I watch the moonlight. He is my Brian. He is not a husband, and not a partner. At best he's the heir to the fortune that keeps me on my meds. I don't know what love is, but I mutter whatever I seem to discover about it at our climaxes. It seems wrong not to. I was diagnosed with mild nymphomania, but I only think that was because I slept with the doctor.

My Brian doesn't know what it was like. He never saw them drop dead in the fucking streets. He didn't ever see a bar raid. To him, it's all flashing lights and Lady Gaga. To him, I am the little damaged puppy, good for being charitable and sex. He wants to be buried next to me so that everyone can see our names together, so they can see he saved me and was so nice to me. And he has been, with his money and his young looks and fetish for people like me.

I think a bit about the anonymous sex I had in the bathrooms of sleazy, dirty bars. I was the real dirty one, those men wanted sex, when what I wanted was a drug to become addicted to. And I was addicted. They seemed so much more pure now, just wanting to fuck and be fucked; be close to someone. I never wanted to be close, never wanted to touch or talk or cuddle. I wanted to feel. So why was it me now who was cured of the stupid disease, when other people were so torn and destroyed by it? I wouldn't mind, honest. No one knew me, there wasn't anyone who would even show up to the goddamned funeral. I had probably killed people, giving it to them. And they suffered, when here I was, the immune system of an anemic hamster and here I was, chocked up on meds and alive.

The moon was pretty in his skin. I straddled him and kissed his cheeks, then his lips. Those dark eyes opened groggily. "Jade? You still up?" he asked. I was kissing him aggressively now, trying not to laugh. It was all so sad. "Now?" he asked. I grabbed the collar of his shirt and shook it. But my hands were the size of a skeleton's.

"I have a disease," I told him. "I have a disorder. I'm damaged." And he sighed.

"I know babe. I love you." I crashed our mouths together and ground our groins together. He gasped for air, and I pinned his hands above his head. I was grinding harder now. Neither of us bothered putting on clothes anymore, we knew it would always be like this. We didn't talk or cuddle: we felt. I was between his well shaped thighs and sucking hard on him, biting when I felt he wasn't being loud enough. I tugged on his foreskin and he screamed. I grabbed his balls, and he spurted into my mouth, no warning save his moans and groans. I drank it all and then climbed back atop him. I would suck him until I died of throat cancer, but I never allowed him to so much touch mine. It was dirty.

I beat him off fast, because now I wanted my sex. I grabbed a condom and slipped it over him. He held my hips as I positioned myself. I then sank down on him, engulfing him. I didn't even wait. I bounced and humped, wanting my release. He hit my prostate and I shuddered, but kept at it. There was no rhythm, or reason anymore. It was fast and he had his eyes closed and I could barely breathe as I beat myself off. He came within me, and I came on him. I gasped and he gasped and we lay beside each other. I tied off the condom, then licked him clean, drop by drop. I was the only one filthy enough to touch it.

I didn't know anyone. My fag hags were gone, my men were dead, and there hadn't been much more than that. There was this young man though, so much younger than me I didn't care to think about it. And he would let me use him, let me drive him into myself, let me impale and feel. And he bought the pretty pills that made my mind stay between my ears and told me the pretty things the doctors told him to. Why wasn't I dead? It would have been such a beautiful exit. When I did die, nothing would be left of me save a diseased, boiled penis and a clean, intact prostate. Everything else would have melted and screamed away. I was struck with the beauty of it all; of the penis and the prostate being the entirety of my existence.

"Honey honey honey honey honey," I breathed against his ear excitedly. I wanted him to know my idea. He looked at me.

"Baby I love you," he told me sincerely. I was my own damned cliché, my own worst enemy: an over the hill tramp. I grabbed his dick.