Monday, February 15, 2010

Another night out

She wasn't so much lying on him, so much as giving the sense that she'd been poured out on top of the sofa, with him in between. The party raged on in the background, having razed the notion of peace and quiet within the neighbourhood; always the good sign of a killer night.
Craig looked at her murmering form, as she drooled a pool of lite-beer-strength saliva into his jeans. Thankfully, Trish wasn't one for puking. A lethargic drunk was the preferable kind of wingwoman, given the option. Other chicks at the party gave knowing smiles as they passed. He attempted to smile back, trying to mouth out-
"She's not my girlfriend!"
Nobody seemed to care, not really. It wasn't like he was loading her into a backseat or carting her off with furtive-looking lads for a taste of a one-sided pleasure of the most dishonest kind. That'd be a quick call to the police, and damned right of them to do so.
Of course, it wasn't fair. All the chicks here were just in varying states of reduced will, slavering from one set of pecs to the next, their eyes lingering hungrily on appropriately tight jeans. The nearest hookup was brought into being with the agreeance of eye contact: a passive nod, a teasing sideglance, a scowling half-lidded glare. An unspoken communication that transcended the constant noisy throb of the din. All other conversation was just a cover for the act, mere pretense.
This wasn't a sight better than the men, who baited their traps with the enthusiasm of pre-pubescents. Some winked and made faces, apparently having no knowledge of what the game was called, much less having read the rules. Too much prey without chase, and the huntresses would lose interest, eyes roving to the next available target.
Craig still sat helplessly, a deaf-mute anthropologist with only a comatose translator-turned-lap-moistener. Shit.
He fumbled for his drink. Oily vodka, hastily mixed in a Mason jar with a panopoly of nominally appropriate liquors assaulted his sobriety with blunt heat. The bitter-tasting concoction did knock him into an easier state, but was hell going down. Served him right for having mixed his own stuff, what with Jason being busy with his Tom Cruise thing with the cocktail shakers for some pair of tits with a girl hanging off of them. What a horny jerk. An amazed titter broke out as the man poured blue flame into the nearest Collins glass. Craig bit angrily into the cocktail onion, savouring the vague sweetness of it as he watched Jason loosen some of his admirers' inhibitions. Hunters had become the hunted.
"Having fun?"
Craig turned to see the wavering form of Trish's partner, Alexa. She picked at her nose ring, looking down at her mostly-conscious girlfriend.
"It's a blast. Help me get this sack of wet potatoes off of my crotch, please?"
Alexa nodded obligingly, grabbing Trish's underarms and shifting her top half onto the empty side of the couch.
"Bit of a light-weight, isn't she?"
"Yeah. She should be more like you," said Craig, "Superdyke."
"Behold, mortal, my resistance to your feeble alcohols!" Alexa thrust a fist in the air, as if taking off. They broke out into laughter, joined by a petite brunette who was walking by.
"What would be the point in that kind of superpower?" broke in the brunette, "It would take all the fun out it!"
Craig did his best to keep in his role, pushing his concentration above the sea of alcohol. Set the scene, be evasive. "What are you talking about? Half the fun's in the taste." He jiggled the empty Mason jar. "It's an experience into itself, combining the right ingredients and enjoying a finished product."
"And nobody's more knowledgeable than Craig--" started Jason, having appeared behind them with a fresh drink in hand. Craig widened his eyes with irritation, subtly baring territorial canines. A smooth wink from the bartender soothed the savage beast. "You left your cocktail at the counter. Wish I could mix like that."
Craig took the gift with silent thanks, cooly turning back to the brunette, who stared at the shifting contents of the glass.
"Woww. That looks amazing."
He passed her the cocktail, grinning to himself. Killer night, huh.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Repost: On Non-Somnulence

I don't have insomnia. I just forget how to sleep every now and then, when niggling little thoughts distract my attention.

They catch up with you, those little niggling thoughts.
Sometimes, they're a welcome addition to the whole family of ideas that go racing around in your skull. Othertimes, well, they just tend to overstay their welcomes. Slavering little hyenas, yelping and fucking, persistently nipping at you no matter how you jam your eyelids shut.
But this is why you're so afraid of numbers-- it's not your taxes or your phone bill-- it's not that you were traumatized to find out that seven ate nine-- it's not that your father beat you with a switch every time you forgot a decimal place of pi-- it's that fucking clock of yours. It's liquid crystal dripping, like some kind of Chinese Water Torture, every agonizing drop a an aeon you've been kept awake.
It's in league with the hyenas, I swear. The two of them, mocking you, forcing you to turn and twist as your bedsheets contort around you. The ravenous fabric python constricts and envelops, choking you. Oh, but the python is a damned tease, and refuses to carry out the motions in full by delivering you into oblivion. It just half-kills you while the hyena-thoughts pick apart your thought-muscles. And the red glowing numbers, the king of your dysnumeria, tell you that it's barely been a minute since you last checked it.

But I have to be up tomorrow. I have things to do. I'm going to be dead tired, I'm going to be a zombie. Like that little horrid little jungle that was your bedroom gives a damn about you. Survival of the fittest, and you're barely fit for scraps. The fresh sweat beads impetuously across the whole of your body. Can't-bare-to-acknowledge-o'clock-in-the-m
orning, and you're busy knotted in a damp alien place that offers you no comfort. You start to curse the need for sleep, curse your body, curse your brain-stuff for keeping you occupied with repetitive trivia.

It's the worst kind of addiction, you know, and a deadly kind of withdrawal that few (if any) can kick. Get them hooked while they're young, and they're lifelong addicts, spending a third of their life in thrall to this most potent of hallucinogenic-paralytic restorative draughts. Every night, I'm left to wonder, how would I ever give up sleep?