I see people passing as I walk down the dark, deserted street. They stare at me out of desire. They are as disgusting as they are intriguing to me. I cannot bring myself to pursue any possibilities after my last charade with Ross and Ashley.
Street lights hang over the intersections, changing between green, yellow, and red. The humans, in their rolling boxes, stop at the white lines on red, push them into motion on green, and the people on the sidewalks cross at the sign of a white light human suspended in a box on the opposite side of the street--their destination. I follow as one of these beings, though I cannot imagine being one of them.
I think of Ashley. Cool raindrops fall from the sky and drizzle upon the streets of La--Los Angeles--the City of Angels.
As I make my way to nowhere in particular, I realize that God and Satan are in these street lights. With a simple scarlet dot, these people are completely neutralized. Green, the color of grass, is a good sign. It is good fortune to pass into green for it is efficiency; productivity. Yellow is horror. Yellow leads to damaging, painful places. I see from the craziness it inspires in these creatures that being caught yellow is to be caught in judgment and indecision. I take note that green is an archetype for the Lord and red is, and has always been, a color for darkness, anger, passion.
Desire leads to torment.
As the rain clouds descend upon the city, the underbelly of cloud radiates pink and orange from the dangerous level of big-city light pollution. I find myself standing before a brilliant neon blue sign that reads 'Presley's Bar and Grill': a place of slaughter and home to the boozehound sport. Water drips from my hair onto my face as the rain dampens me. I see people huddled under the transom overseeing Presley's. Some peer at me. Most are drunkards, knocked into limbo by the manifestation of the rain passing through their existence.
He comes bustling out of Presley's like a man on a mission. His eyes see through me until he is upon me, and then he adjusts. His face changes into that of a man who has just had a very important epiphany. He wears a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase at his side. He has parted short black hair. "What's your name?" He yells through the cheer of the rain.
"Jessica." I state. This is all I know.
"How much do you charge?" He asks. Having stepped out into the downpour, his hair begins to strain and spread over his forehead.
"I don't accept money." I say. True enough. Money is a desirable object. Being a desirable object in my own, I haven't any use for such useless items. He is proposing that I am a hooker, a scenario buried in my memories that I will play upon, but will not act upon. Whoredom is as fickle as it is potentially dangerous. Passion is caused by desire. Currency is a desire that humans have adapted upon. I wish only to make the world a happier place in my own way, and money takes away from that.
"I'm Paul. Can I buy you a drink?" He asks.
This is a straightforward male pick-up line. "There's no need for that. I am in no mood for foreplay. If you wish to screw my brains out, then so be it."
We go back to Paul's house. While we're driving in his beamer, he talks on and on about his horrible day and how he lost an important case. He took advantage of my position in the passenger seat by sliding his hand up and down my leg until he slips it under the waistband of my sweats and fingers my vagina. I am not stimulated enough to find this arousing, but I don't think it necessary to ward his touch away. I feign silent anticipation for his being inside me.
At his penthouse apartment, Paul pours himself a glass of brandy and asks that I help myself to his wife's assortment of night gowns. Melissa--she is out of town for the weekend, according to Paul. I can, morally, only hope that she is cheating on him in kind wherever she is. Her husband does not wear his wedding ring. Judgment is not for me to decide. I dress in his wife's most sensual nightie. Her figure is very similar to my own: small, thin, and a perfectly proportioned, ample bust.
Paul, the bastard lawyer, is decent with his rod. He plows me from behind against the armrest of his fancy black leather couch. I feel his hand clapping my right butt cheek, inspiring my vagina to tighten around his cock. He fondles my breasts, licking my nipples and playfully biting the flesh around my areola for at least half an hour. We do it up and down, backward, side-to-side, and at one point, I am laying over him with my back on his furry chest as he grips my waist, plunging his penis into me from below. By three in the morning, he is exhausted and asks that I ride him until he's ready to come. I do so, holding my climax until he forces me onto all fours at the bedside and stands in me at doggie, dribbling his fishy semen between my legs. Paul pushes me away, springing his erect johnson from my pussy where he haphazardly rolls onto the bed sideways, and passes out.
His face is gaunt, plastered against his sweat-covered pillow. After ten minutes of observing his immobile form, I realize that Paul is not breathing. I watch him carefully. Paul's mouth is open an inch and his eyes a hair. His right hand is curled about his left bicep. Paul is dead. I have sexually given him a heart-attack or stroke, which was probably inspired shortly after we came together. Coming with my companion is a feat in which I am naturally gifted. In this case, Paul's end is justified as his wife will see how little regard he held for her, requesting a whore in her place while she is absent. I do not believe myself to be a hooker, asking no profit for my actions.
I doubt Melissa will see it that way.
At five in the morning, I raid Melissa's closet, dressing, and taking all the clothes that characteristically match my features and necessities for my facade. I carry these in an outdoor sports backpack I find under the bed. The process reminds me of Ross and Ashley. I find that I miss their discretion. Compared to Paul, I admire their capability to deny outside influences and remain faithful to one another. Ross and Ashley--judging by their lifestyle and actions--were poor, but happy nonetheless. Paul was very unhappy, but wealthy in his own. I see that money is not required for happiness. I must muse upon this later.
I leave Paul's penthouse and follow the streets until the sun rises in the east, casting a shiny glow over the humid city of La.
Despite the busyness in the last twelve hours, I find that I am not sleepy in the least. I am, however, feeling a sensation coursing through my belly that sends hunger to my brain. The wind blows my silky hair over my shoulders as I follow the morning humans along their routes, leaving most as they usher to the donut stores, which seem to supply the humans with their fatty needs at any given time. I notice McDonalds is also brimming with hungry humans, like flies to an obese patty of feces.
The rain from earlier has bathed the city in a glistening radiance. The weather patters in La are as spontaneous as its peculiar inhabitants, most of which couldn't care a less that they are getting drenched. Having awakened in a sewer, I find that my being wetter--no innuendo intended--doesn't bother me. Rain is rain. Weather is weather. If I happen to be out in it, then I am out in it.
I decided to scope out one of these donut stores. It is titled 'Sebastian's Donuts and Coffee'. There is a very large man holding a thick yellow circle over his head in front of the building. I cannot help but simply stare at it as the sun breaks through the cloud-cover behind his rugged arm and shines golden light upon the street corner I'm standing on. I feel beautiful as the wind continues to rustle my hair. I'm wearing a wonderful assortment from Sak's Fifth Avenue: a white blouse and black slacks with matching black heels. I still cannot take my eyes off the donut man: Sebastian, I suppose. I will keep his image with me, for he is a symbol of all that is whole and happy.
When I enter the store, there are four people in the line ahead. Basic manners are to wait at the back of the line until your turn is dealt. Behind the counter, there is a man with rotund cheeks working the counter. While he may be Sebastian himself, he is not my Sebastian. My Sebastian is strong, hearty, snug in his blue work-pants, and overworked in his white, long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has been building houses for children, and plays in a jazz band in the evenings. My Sebastian will not tire after only three hours.
It's my turn. I step up to the glass case where there are thousands of disgusting yellow shapes with all kinds of trash and odd greasy colors drizzled on top. Some are circles, some are lines, some are S shaped--and some look strikingly like fecal splatters. These are bear-claws or apple fritters. I am confused as to why I am inclined to use some of these as nourishment like the rest of these people. These food stations are putting out questionable matter in even more questionable shapes. Perhaps there is something psychological I'm missing.
"C'mon lady, I ain't got all day!" The flabby old Sebastian behind the counter scowls. "Time is money. C'mon, let's go!"
Time is money. There are more people behind me now. "What is a bear-claw?"
