Author Topic: A Good Night  (Read 1079 times)

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©brad

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A Good Night
« on: July 23, 2004, 12:27:27 AM »
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A Good Night

W[/b]et your face and squeeze Deep Action Cream Cleanser into the palm of your hand. For extra cleansing action, massage into skin with a washcloth. Pat dry with towel…” reads the directions on the back of the new face wash I’ve recently bought to eradicate a small red mound that resides underneath my left sideburn that I know will turn into a huge whitehead in about a day if I do not act soon. “This daily facial cleanser removes dirt and oil without drying your skin, leaving you clean and fresh without clogging pores…” I continue to read the back of the bottle while I take a bar of soap and rub my abs which are rock hard from the two hour work out I had this morning (30 minutes on the treadmill, 500 stomach crunches, 150 sit-ups (it was a light day), 3 sets of bench presses (10 reps each), 3 sets of bicep curls with 40 pound weights and 2 sets with 50 pounds, 25 pull-ups, and even ended the workout with 20 minutes of light yoga (just because the new Vietnamese yoga instructor is beyond hot and has a set of tits that will add years to your life)).
And tonight will be a good night.
I wash my face twice with this $14 bottle of facial cream and then continue to soap up my stomach, moving down, rubbing my balls with the soap. My dick gets semi-hard and I start to jack off but I don’t come because I need to save it. Because
tonight will be a good night.
   I get out of the shower and grab a towel, drying my hair a little as I look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m flexing my arms and stomach. I’m soaking wet, water dripping down my chest. My dick is raging hard now, standing straight out, my scrotum firm and tight. I brush my teeth naked, still flexing my muscles periodically, then I put on deodorant, still naked. I flex again. I look god damn hot.
And tonight will be a good night.
   I put on a pair of Calvin Kline boxers and peruse my closet, cursing myself for having such a typical wardrobe. I persistently rub my hand across my rock hard abs as I decide on what shirt I’m going to wear (why are you even looking? You know you’re going to wear your black short-sleeve polo shirt that is purposefully two sizes too small for no other reason than to show off your arm muscles) and then after pulling three different shirts out (including the black one) I walk over to a computer desk cluttered with stacks of papers, a copy of the The Davinchi Code a friend (chick) let me borrow that I won’t read, 4 empty bottles of Beck’s Dark (two of which are half-empty), two rolled up dollar bills, an empty Radiohead Pablo Honey CD case with a thin layer of coke residue laying on top, and a to-do list which includes the following:

1.   Take new Ralph Lauren suit to dry cleaners
2.   Have sex with a virgin, preferably sorority chick.
3.   Find out what the best white wine to drink with sushi is
4.   Do not return calls from Courtney or Beth
5.   Get car detailed
6.   Get reservations at new Spanish tapas bar La Ria Mia
7.   Get a new cell phone (the Nokia 6800 with polyphonic ring tones and a digital camera)

I put on a pair of Patagonia khaki pants and the black Polo shirt and slip on a pair of Birkenstocks and walk to the mirror for a first look. I’m a little surprised to see how much my ass doesn’t show in these pants but the shirt is really showing off my triceps so it’s cool. I worry that this might be too casual for dinner but I realize that it doesn’t really matter because my faggot friends will no doubt be way overdressed and look like retards and I will be the one relaxed, cool, chill guy at the table, the guy the girl will admit to her girlfriends at a nearby table that she would fuck the shit out of.
I look good. I can’t remember if I put on deodorant so I grab the stick and put some on. I grab the keys to my Land Rover Defender 90 and I leave, checking my reflection in my rear view mirror.
My name is Brett. I am 24 years old.
And tonight will be a good night.


Dinner


   “This is such a fag restaurant,” says Keith, taking a rather large sip of his Tanqueray and tonic. “Look- just look at all these fags. All the waiters are fags. Everyone eating in here are fags. Even the Chef is a fag. The whole fucking world is turning gay.”
   “Bret’s idea to come here,” Ronnie mumbles while playing with a gold zippo in his right hand.
   “How do you know the Chef is a fag?” My bleach-blond haired friend Kyle asks.
   “Man, have you seen all the entrees these people are eating? They’re all pink! Even that prime rib over there, look, it’s got some pink sauce on it. What the fuck?” screams Keith.
   “The food is suppose to be pretty decent,” says Kyle.
   We’re sitting at a shitty table in the non-smoking section (smoking was full) at Santa Fe Café, a new chic Tex-Mex place downtown. The walls are painted a muted pink and are bare except for a few scattered sombreros that hang on long hooks. The restaurant upon first glance looks relatively small, with a mere 5 tables in this dining room. However, I am to learn that there are several other levels and even a VIP room at $300 a head upstairs, which leaves me bitter, for I know I’m going to catch shit for booking us in this shitty room at this shitty table with these shitty people. I’m eyeing a hotass blond bartender, the only thing semi-decent in this place, wearing a tight black shirt (really just a strapless black bra) and gold pants. I am barely paying Keith, Ronnie, or Kyle any attention, or at least pretending not to anyhow (I wouldn’t even classify them as friends really, just bar/restaurant/work acquaintances).  
   “What are you looking at pusswad?” Keith asks, turning around, noticing the hot bartender. “Whoa, nice tits… nice.”
   “She kind of looks like Courtney McFierson,” Ronnie says.
   “Didn’t you fuck her?” says Ronnie or Kyle, I’m not really paying attention.
   “Who, Courtney?” Keith asks.
   “Yeah, wasn’t she the girl who would only let you fuck her in the ass because she was engaged and didn’t want to get pregnant?” asks Ronnie.
   “No, no, no, that was Courtney McMichael. But Courtney McFierson might be engaged too, I don’t know. Who cares.”  A slight pause. “They both like it in the ass.”
   Our waiter comes, a tall Mexican guy with greased back hair who probably is indeed gay because I keep catching him eyeing my arms. (It might not even be a gay thing. Maybe he’s just marveling at their size and tone). We begin to order. Keith complains about the menu being all in Spanish (actually, the word he uses is “mexicano”) so I have to translate; Keith orders chiles rellenos con camarones (shrimp stuffed poblano chiles), Ronnie points to the Huachinango con Salsa de Mango (red snapper with mango salsa), Kyle orders the cheapest thing on the menu, the pan de cazon (tortillas with shredded fish tempura and black bean salsa at $29), I order the Almejas Brujas (stuffed clams) and for an appetizer the Camarones al coco (coconut shrimp) and empanadas de pescado (fish empanadas). The waiter nods and runs away quickly. Keith is shaking his head. A short Mexican bus boy drops by and puts three huge baskets of multi-colored chips on the table. There is barely enough room for our drinks now. Keith is really annoyed.
   “Where we going after this?” someone asks.
   “Sky,” Keith and I say at the same time.
   “Talk about fag bars,” Ronnie says.
   “It’s not a fag bar dumbass. It’s not even a bar, it’s a club. It’s like, the number one… club… right now,” Keith struggles to say for some reason.
   “Have you ever even been there?”
   “Me? No… not personally.”
   “I have,” I say like it’s no big deal but I know it is.
   “Are there a lot of fags there?” Ronnie asks.
   “Only one I saw was your dad, and he was giving hand jobs in the bathroom so I didn’t really even notice.”
   Two Mexican waiters walk by talking/gossiping/giggling as they make their way into the kitchen. Keith tries to get their attention to get another drink but they don’t notice him.
   “Queers. Did you see that one on the right? He had makeup on. No shit. The motherfucker was wearing eyeliner, I swear,” Keith persists.
   “You know, I read in GQ that mascara on men is actually somewhat trendy right now, at least… you know… in the city,” Kyle says.
   Keith immediately slaps Kyle hard in the back of his head with his right hand and with his left grabs the arm of a passing bus boy.
   “Excuse me amigo, I need another drink. Tanqueray-and-tonic, under-stand?” Keith is speaking very slowly but the bus boy still does not understand.
   “Que qienes?” he asks, confused.
   “Drink, drink, drink,” Keith says, holding up his empty glass.
   “Chips?” the bus boy says.
   “No, no, no, drink, drink, refreshco-whatever-the-fuck. Drinkos! God damnit Brett help me out here.”
   “You seem to be handling the situation fine,” I say.
   “Drink! You understand?” Keith says.
   The bus boy nods and even smiles a little and then scurries off.
   “See how bad the little bastard messes this one up.”
   My mind wanders as I catch another glimpse of the blonde bartender, and I wonder who I want to fuck tonight. Courtney will indefinitely be at Sky tonight, and she will indefinitely be drinking Stoli’s and will indefinitely be on Xanax, and fucking her when she’s drunk and high is about as much fun as fucking a dead rotting corpse, so I ponder other possibilities. Stephanie is cute and pretty wild in bed, no tits but her ass makes up for it, but I suspect she has the clap because she took part on what was a fivesome with two black guys who claim to be on the Detroit Pistons; therefore, I’m somewhat hesitant in pursuing. And anyway, I am adamantly against fucking any girl who has had a black dick in her, so on second thought, she’s out. There’s Trish Yearwood, a girl I haven’t fucked but have gotten okay-head from. She’s called me three times this week. I know she’ll be down.
   I want to fuck someone new. New. That is key.
   The bus boy returns with two more baskets of chips, adding to the three that are already on the table that no one has touched.
   “Jesus Christ,” Keith mutters as the bus boy smiles, as if he’s proud of his work, before running off.  
   “Hey, is wearing a blazer with jeans cool now? Because I see a lot of guys doing it,” Kyle asks, a bit confused.
   “I think it depends on your age,” Ronnie suggests.
   “What, you mean you can’t be old and wear it?”
   “No, I mean, a 50-year old wearing Levi’s and Armani would look retarded. Yes?”
   “But, if, say, I wore that it would be cool?”
   “Maybe, it depends…” Ronnie answers.
   “It is cool depending on the type of jeans, the dye, how they fit, and what kind of blazer you wear, but it none of this matters anyway because all your suits suck ass and you would never be able to pull it off,” I say, a little angry.
   “What do you mean I wouldn’t be able to pull it off? Could you pull it off?”
   “Oh shut up you faggots,” Keith sighs. “Could someone call Ricky Martin over here so I can get another fucking drink?”
   Another bus boy, one I have yet to see, walks by. Keith raises his glass high in the air. The bus boy nods and runs off. About thirty seconds later, he brings back another basket of chips and a glass of water with a small umbrella stick thing made out of pink tissue paper.
   “Oh my god,” Keith moans. I decide to take action by waving my arm in the air (cool-like) to the hot blonde bartender. It takes her a moment to realize that I am indeed waving at her but when she does it takes her very little time to make her way over to our table.
   “Excuse me darling, dear, what is your name?”
   “Sabrina,” she says, a little hesitant.
   “Sabrina. Great to meet you. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind getting myself and my fellow colleagues here another round of drinks. You see, we’ve been unable to flag down anyone who speaks English and who understands our needs. Would you be able to help us out?”
   “Suuuure,” she says, semi-smiling.
   “And please tell the bus boys to stay at least twenty feet from our table for the rest of the night,” Keith barks, sucking on ice cubes.
   She walks away quickly, and I check her ass out as she does this, and I want nothing more than to bend her over the bar and fuck the ever-living shit out of her, with everyone watching no less. And as I start to think about this- lifting her right leg above the bar while grab the back of her neck- my dick starts to grow inside my pants.
   Keith sighs again. “Fag restaurant.”


Sky


   And the line to get in doesn’t look that long but we’re told that the wait is about 45 minutes-plus but luckily we’re walking to a VIP entrance with two girls Keith knows (how?- I don’t know). One of these girls is undeniably gorgeous but really bitchy and she claims to be hungover from an all night coke binge the night before at a party for the premiere of the new Brian DePalma movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Katie Holmes and supposedly she hangs out with Leo on a regular basis but I seriously doubt it. Keith and Ronnie can’t get over how hot the other chick is (I think her name is Nell but I’m not sure) but her hair is just too blonde and one of her tits is sagging (I can’t believe no one notices) so I’ve already lost interest.
   We walk single filed down two long hallways and the bumping bass from an unidentifiable song is heard from above and after walking down the second hallway we are greeted by a bouncer, a big ass black dude dressed in all black with “Sky” embroidered on his shirt in an icy-blue color, who, upon taking one look at one of the bitches in the front and then glancing back at me, nods and opens a big glass door and, at last, we are in the VIP room.
   It’s smaller than I thought it would be but 10 times cooler. A private glass bar sits along the right wall, with light blue sky lights giving the entire room a light blue tint.

   Music: Moby
Crowd: late 20s, early 30s, yuppies, models (or waitresses pretending to be models)
   Atmosphere: Chill

   The girl who’s name I think is Nell orders a sky cosmopolitan (a cosmo with SKYY Vodka and blue curaco) for no other reason than to be able to hold a blue drink that matches her razor sharp blue eyes (pathetic, but I would probably do it too). The other chick orders a nicotini, a vodka martini laced with nicotine (tobacco leaves soaked in SKYY vodka overnight, with a splash of Kahlua and triple sec to take the edge off). Keith and Kyle both order gin and tonics, Ronnie orders a Makers and ginger-ale (how typical), I decide to be semi-cool and order something called a Mojito (Captain Morgan’s spiced rum, mint, sugar, lime juice, and a splash of club soda). We get our drinks. We sit.
   A droning conversation ensues about how Nell has just gotten back from a modeling shoot in Milan and how she is so done with Donatella Versace, and Keith nods as if he knows what the hell she is talking about even though I know he can’t even spell Versace let alone make any seemingly intelligent comment about it (neither can I, sadly). The other chick looks bored, barely sipping her $14 drink.
    “So, how long were you in L.A.?” I ask, pretending to care.
   “What?” she asks, but I know the bitch heard me.
   “How long were you in L.A.?”
   “Couple days, maybe, I don’t know. I was in London before that.”
   “Oh yeah, for what?”
   She gives me a shouldn’t-you-know-that-already look, and says while simultaneously rolling her eyes: “a shoot.”
   “Oh, cool,” I say, not even caring that I’m acting like the biggest dork on the planet (I think I’m doing it on purpose). “For what, um… line?”
   Again, she gives me that isn’t-it-obvious look, like I’m suppose to know all about women’s fashion, dumb bitch. “Dolce & Gabanna,” she sighs.
   I join in on Keith and Kyle’s conversation with Nell. Ronnie seems to have disappeared.
   “So, my unofficial plan is to get this thing produced within the next year, hopefully by either New Line or Focus Features, maybe DreamWorks but I’m not sure, it’s all still in development,” Keith tells Nell (fucking liar).
   “Have you ever done any acting?” Kyle asks. (And they claim to be hip? My friends are such dorks).
   “Um, yeah. Say, Kai, let’s go dance.”
   Kai. That’s the girl’s name.
   “I don’t really feel like it,” Kai says.
   Out of the corner of my eye I see a short blonde girl wearing tight black pants and a strappy yellow shirt thing, and she looks really, really familiar. I may have fingered her last summer in the back of the Land Rover. She’s drinking-what else- a Cosmopolitan. I know I know her somehow but I’m not sure…
   Two Sarah Jessica Parker look-alikes walk up to the bar next to the blond chick and order Cosmopolitans and they are smoking Marlboro Lights and discussing in an obnoxiously loud manner a new diet that consists of nothing more than club soda and pistachios.

   Music: A Tupac song I’ve never heard.
   Crowd: A little less now, maybe 15.
   Atmosphere: Boring

   I down this way-too-sweet drink and rush to the bar without bothering to see if anyone needs anything. I order a shot of chilled Patron and a Stoli Vodka tonic and chug it before ordering another one of the Mojitos. I take the shot of Patron, spark up a Camel Light, and walk back to the table.
   “I’m going inside.” I don’t invite anyone else with me.
   As I walk across the room to the glass French doors that serve as the gateway into the big dance floor, my eyes meet for just a second with the blond in the yellow shirt and the tight black pants. I turn away quickly. I think she might have been smiling.


Dancing


   The dance floor is huge, with three dance floors on three different levels, and cascading blue and white lights bounce around a room illuminating several (and by several I mean about 10) ice sculptors of bottles of vodka (huge) and people are not dancing in couples but in groups. A spotlight I cannot locate is illuminating “SKY” on the top of the ceiling (think of the Batman signal, only this one says “SKY”).  

   Music: Who knows (techno)
   Crowd: 250-300
   Atmosphere: Bumpin’

   I push my way through the crowd towards the bathrooms, and inside the men’s room there are about four people in each of the 10 stalls (actually, there are more women in this bathroom than men) all doing blow, and I find a spot by the sink and pull out my own bag, taking two large key bumps, making sure the Land Rover key chain is easily visible to anyone standing near, and the coke is pretty bumpy and hurts a little when I snort it but the drip comes fast and soon I can’t feel the back of my throat and I take some on my finger and rub my teeth. I then check my nostrils in the mirror and light another Camel before making my exit.
   Back in the club I retreat to one of several bars on this level and order the following: a Crown Royal with a splash of ginger-ale and two shots of chilled Patron. Standing next to me is a cute brunette with quite possible one of the nicest asses I’ve ever seen. She is rubbing the back of a girl standing next to her, a not-as-cute Asian chick who is crying on a cell phone.
   AsianChickOnPhone: “I just am so sick of this shit Mark.. It’s all fucking lies and bullshit anyhow, and I can’t take it anymore… yes I’m out! I’m out! And I don’t give a shit what you think because you go out all the time and fuck whatever skank you see and then you come home drunk as fuck and lie-” I leave the bar at this point.
   
   Music: Britney Spears Toxic (fucking hell)
   Crowd: same
   Atmosphere: high

   The coke is kicking in, and although it’s pretty mellow, the tequila and bourbon are setting me straight, and I start bouncing around the crowd, dancing to fucking Britney Spears of all things, thinking about how good my arms must look in this shirt and how bad I want to take it off right now. And as I dance through the crowd I feel several people grabbing my ass (disgustingly, I think the majority of them are guys) and I eye a girl in a red skirt that kind of looks like that hot bartender at Santa Fe Café and I walk over, coolly, when all of a sudden Keith grabs my arm and pulls me towards him.
   “I-just-took-three-hits-of-liquid-acid,” he says, slurring.
   “Yeah?-and-my-dog-likes-to-eat-cheerios. Who gives a fuck?” I mimic.
   “Dude, this is… way… like intense, dude,” he says.
   “When did you take it?”
   “As we were leaving the… Mexican… thing,” he spits out.
   “Thanks for saving one for me asshole.”
   He turns around at blatantly checks out two girls who may even be twins. One of them turns away and dials a number on her phone (why? I can barely hear myself think let alone talk on a phone, dumb bitch) and the other stands there, checking Keith out.
   “You’ll do,” he says, grabbing her hand.

   Back in the VIP room (it took the bouncer a moment to remember me before letting me back in) I order another shot of Patron and a Sky Vodka and lemonade (chick drink but I really want one) and Nell and Kai are nowhere to be found (good) so I just sit at the bar, wiping a little sweat off my brow, lighting another Camel, looking good, semi-drunk.
   A tap on my shoulder. I pretend not to notice. Another one. I turn around slowly.
   The girl in the black pants and yellow shirt.

   Music: Jungle Boogie
   Crowd: Crowded
   Atmosphere: Increasingly frustrating

   “Um, hiya,” I say, my voice almost cracking (god damnit).
   “Hey there,” she says, helping herself to the empty stool to my right.
   “Do I um… know… you?” I spit out. Patron really kicking in.
   “Most definitely not,” she says.
   “Huh.”
   She sighs, lighting a cigarette.
   “Are you… Kate… Hudson?”
   She laughs. “Sure.”
   “Whoa… like… I thought it wassss…. yeeew…” fuck I’m drunk. I need to do some more blow to sober me up but I fear too much will ruin any chance of me getting it up tonight, especially in conjunction with all the liquor.
   “Aren’t you like… married to that… magician? I mean… musician?”
   “Nah,” Kate Hudson says, sipping-what else- a Cosmopolitan.
   “Oh, I thought I read that… on page… six.”
   “Thought wrong pal.”
   Bartender comes by, and I order another shot of Patron and ask Kate Hudson if she wants anything and she orders another Sky and cranberry and we toast and I take the shot and ask her if she does coke and she says “most definitely” and I do a key bump and hand her over the bag and she takes it and puts it in her purse and does something but I can’t tell what and then she takes a key (BMW) and does a small bump but I can’t tell if any of the powder even made it up her nose and then she gives me back my bag and I tie the knot and put it back in the small pocket of my Patagonia pants.
   And then I black out.


Car


   I’m driving. “Son of a preacher man” blares on my radio, I’m babbling about how I think Uma Thurman’s feet are sexy and my Patagonia pants are around my ankles while Kate Hudson expertly gives me road head, wrapping her tongue around the head of my dick while she plays with my balls and then she licks up and down the shaft while tickling my asshole and my dick starts to throb, by balls clench, and she takes her mouth off my cock, grabs the head of my dick and whispers into my ear: “Not yet.”


My Place


   Music: nothing
   Crowd: Two of us.
   Atmosphere: Steamy.

   We start to make out in the kitchen. She rips off my black short-sleeve polo (finally, someone can see how good my abs look today) and she rubs her hands over them as we deep throat each other. I take one hand and rub her back while grabbing her ass with the other, and then I take both hands and quickly undo her belt and zipper and she’s already moaning as she licks my right earlobe, rubbing my raging hard cock through my pants.
   “In the bed,” she might have said.

   And we’re naked now on my bed. She’s on her back and my face is in her crotch (I usually only go down on girls when I’m on coke you see) and my tongue is massaging her clit while my right hand is rubbing her tits and she starts to moan loud-like as my tongue goes down, entering her, deep inside as I take my left hand and play with her clit. Her body starts to convulse and she lifts her back, her head in the air, “oh yes oh yes” she whispers, and I bury my tongue as deep as I can as I start to jack myself off. She reaches up and grabs my left leg, a signal for me to turn around so we can 69, and I do and we do (69 that is) and she takes in my entire cock which has to be standing at 8 inches right now while rubbing my balls and grabbing my ass hard…
   … and now I’m on top fucking her hard, the bed rocking back and forth, and I know it won’t be long before I come and I’m thinking I can’t believe how tight Kate Hudson is and before I know it somehow she flips me over on my back and gets on top and rides me like no other girl has, grabbing my arms and holding them above my head. She is surprisingly strong, so much that I can barely even get my arms from her grasp, but the whole thing is really hot and erotic so I don’t care. She goes up and down, really fucking me, and I try to get into a rhythm with her but there’s no use because she is too fast so I let her just ride my cock as she bends down and starts to suck on my tongue, biting it a little, and I think at one point she spits into my mouth…
   … and I tell her to stop because I want to come on her face, into her mouth, but she doesn’t stop. Instead, she takes her nails and digs them into my arms, breaking the skin, bleeding. It doesn’t really hurt at the moment because my dick is now throbbing and my balls clench up and I start to moan like a bitch as I erupt, coming inside her, four maybe five loads.
   And then I black out again.


Sleep


   this dream I have monthly. I’m dead. A car accident with a drunk driver (I’m the sober one, if you can believe that). I die after being in a coma for like two weeks and everyone I know- mom, dad, other dad, brother, sister I never, ever, ever see, college friends, high school friends, work friends, bar friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, uncles, aunts, cousins, grandma, and even people I don’t recognize but who probably care just as much, are all in the waiting room, and I’m in there, my ghost anyhow, watching their reaction as the doctor informs them of the news, and the rest of the dream is always the same: I have the ability to teleport, if you will, from house to house, place to place, and I go around and see how the people I know in life are coping with my death, and usually the people who grieve the longest are the people I least expect to, but it doesn’t matter because all I want is for someone, just one person at least (hopefully more) to cry for me for a long time


Later


   “Wake up, ass-hole,” someone in the room says.
   My left eye opens slightly, the room a bright blur. Someone has turned on all the lights. Someone has taken off all my clothes. Someone has tied my arms to the bed with chicken wire. Someone has ejaculated on my stomach because there is a load of cum on my bellybutton that doesn’t feel like mine.
   I look around the room. Someone is in the bathroom. And in a moment she will come out, showered, dressed, content.
   “What the… going on… fuck…” I scream all of this, surely still drunk/coked up.
   Kate Hudson, or someone who looks like her, comes out, putting on a silver earring.  
   “Who the faaack…are you?”
   “Oh god… this is just too… perfect,” she says, enunciating ever so clearly.
   She walks back into the bathroom, turns on the water facet and does something, and then comes back out with a brown purse.
   “Oh baby… do I know… I don’t… remember… fuck,” I babble.
   “Oh we fucked alright. You’re fucked,” she says with confidence.
   “What, baby… I don’t… get into this… rough shit,” I say, trying to get my hands out of the chicken wire.
   Someone who looks like Kate Hudson ties her hair into a ponytail and then grabs my computer chair and wheels it next to the bed. She pulls a Marlboro Light out of her purse and lights it, takes a deep drag, and then speaks the following:
   “I’m going to say all of this once, so your drunk ass better pay attention,” she speaks in monotone, taking another drag from her smoke. She is about to says something but is interrupted by an obnoxiously loud cell phone ring. She digs through her purse and pulls out the new Nokia 6800 I want and answers it but doesn’t say anything.
   She sits in silence, holding the phone to her ear. This goes on for at least one minute. I try to wiggle my right arm out of the chicken wire because it feels as if she didn’t tie the knot as tightly as she did the left one but it’s no use; the wire cuts into my wrist, barely missing the vein. Blood pours out.
   The crazy bitch finally hangs up the phone. I’m afraid to look at her. She takes a deep breath. She exhales smoke that must have been in her lungs for a while. She looks at me. She asks the question.  
“Do you remember a girl named Katie?”
   “Katie… yeah…no… no… Katie…” I mumble.
   “I know, what a stupid question, right? How many girls have you fucked and how many of them are probably named Katie, right? Well, this girl was special.”
   Kate Hudson looks at her watch, then looks at me, and then takes another drag from her Malboro, and she exhales like a tough, badass, like a blonde Demi Moore.  
    “She, Katie, the mystery girl, waited on you at Fratello’s, the Italian restaurant in SoHo, and you flirted with her, told her you were in town on business and didn’t really know the area, and that she looked so sweet and that you would really love to just have a drink and chat with her when she got off. Well she said yes. You went to Popper’s, a martini bar. Any of this ring a bell?”
   I don’t say anything. Kate Hudson’s words are not making sense.
   “Well, long story not as long, you took her home, gave her a kiss on the cheek and thanked her for going out with you, and she came home and told her mother that she had met this guy that was so good looking and nice and mature and she was so impressed that you didn’t immediately just want to fuck her and leave her, that you actually showed an interest to get to know her, and that you actually lived up to a promise to call her in two days, and then you guys when out for sushi, and she was nervous about eating it because she had never had it but was excited to be with you so it didn’t really matter.”
   
Music: still nothing
   Crowd: two but who really knows
   Atmosphere: bloody
 
   “So you ate, and then you took her out to Heaven, a new club, and you got her wasted on Cosmopolitans and then you took her home and fucked her all night and when she woke up you weren’t there. Now, this scenario has probably happened to you a dozen or so times, hell, probably even more than that, but there is something more here. There’s something that makes this one special.”
   Another long drag. I try to inhale the second hand smoke that fills the air but am unsuccessful. Kate Hudson is really freaking me out, I’m thinking. What a crazy bitch Kate Hudson is. Why the fuck is Kate Hudson doing this to me? What the fuck is her problem? Why is Goldie Hawn so fucking fuckable at 60? What kind of dough does her plastic surgeon get monthly to keep Goldie’s DSL (dick-sucking-lips) all plump and juicy like that? And just as I’m about to say all of this out loud, she goes on:
   
“You see, Brett McKillin, Katie wasn’t some restaurant/club whore. She wasn’t a model. She wasn’t out to get mixed up with coke heads or drunks looking to fuck freshman sorority girls. She was a good kid. She had a fulltime scholarship to Brown. She was pre-med. She road fucking horses and swam in the fucking lake during the summers, okay? She was good, probably the best girl to ever grace your sleazy brown eyes. When you told Katie you liked her, she believed you. And when you got her drunk she didn’t worry because she thought you were a good guy and thought you would take care of her. And when she woke up the next morning she was bleeding because she was a virgin. She didn’t know where she was or what to do. She called me, and I came to pick her up.”
   Kate Hudson’s tone is still controlled, calm, even though I can sense a furiousness in her, but everything is really still not making much sense, and the chicken wire is really digging into my arms, blood running down them in several different blood streams, and pretty soon some of the streams will unite together into rivers that will flow really fast-like, into my arm pits.
   Kate Hudson puts out her cigarette and lights another.
   “Alright… I’ll cut to the chase here Bretty boy.” Takes another long, long drag. “I took Katie home, and she was a wreck. She couldn’t stop bleeding. She didn’t know what happened. Most of all, she was upset that you, asshole Brett McKillin, weren’t there to take care of her. She thought someone had beaten you up and had taken her home and raped her. She couldn’t even fathom a guy as nice as you doing something like that.”
   Another long drag. She is now smoking the filter.
   “All of this I’m sure is vaguely familiar to you, for as I’ve said before, I’m sure you’ve done this to countless girls in this city, and I know you think this is really no big deal, but I want you to chew on this: what if I was to tell you that Katie got pregnant, and that she was so humiliated about the whole thing that she tried to kill herself one day, and now she’s in intensive care in a coma and will probably be there for the rest of her life? You hear me, you fucking-asshole?! You are so lucky I don’t kill you right now, just take one of those butcher knives I saw in the kitchen and just gut your fucking stomach…”
   She stands up above me, grazing my abs (which I voluntarily flex) with her fingernails.
   “You see Brett, Katie is my sister, and I love her more than anything in this world. I would do anything for her. I would even kill for her. You’re lucky… you’re so fucking lucky, I can’t say it enough. I could cut your fucking dick off and feed it to your dog. Sure wouldn’t be good for your swinging nightlife now would it?”
   I start to scream but before I do she stuffs a rubber ball into my mouth and duck tapes it shut. Once she has the duct tape secure she grabs her purse and makes for the door.
   “I want you to lay her and think about this, okay Bretty boy? And don’t worry, I’m sure one of your faggot friends will eventually stop by to make sure you’re still alive and well after not hearing from you for a couple of days.”
   She opens the bedroom door, but before she leaves, makes one last remark:
   “Oh yeah, forgot to mention; just recently I was diagnosed with HSV-2. Genital herpes in laymen terms. Pretty bad case of it too from what I understand, so, you know… good luck with that.”
   She exits. I start to scream again but the ball in my mouth prevents such an action. A mixture of saliva and blood fill up in my mouth and I can’t help but swallow it. I feel the thick bloody liquid glide down my throat and I get that feeling you get right before you throw up.

Ghostboy

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A Good Night
« Reply #1 on: July 23, 2004, 02:37:49 AM »
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It's not an unenjoyable read, but I gotta say, man, I don't think this holds up to the previous works you've shared with us. You've got great talent as a writer, but I think you might be running a little too close to your inspiration (I say this still without having read any Ellis, but much of this sounded so much like the voice over in the movies that I can't help but feel the narrow proximity between your work and his). Maybe you're subconsciously getting tired of the style; perhaps you reached your nadir with the last piece you posted?

This one reads very well, but it doesn't offer anything new (one of my favorite details about your last story was the narrator bitching about a trait he simultaneously recognized in himself, and that motif gets repeated several times here) or particularly meaningful, and the ironic (in the face of the titular mantra) ending is just...well...tiresome. I'd almost have preferred it if he did end up having a good night, if the girl was just a good lay -- it actually would have packed more of a punch that way.

 

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