The Junkie Tales Read online

  The lock on his car pops, shocking her to the present like the rainwater drizzling from the grey sky.

  “Hop in.” His leer is exaggerated, comical almost.

  The car wipers flip back and forth in a steady rhythm of warning. Thwap...screech...Thwap... Her skin crawls, but she opens the car door anyway. Her need for his money much greater than the revulsion she feels.

  The guy looks okay. Maybe a little sad. His face is narrow and he has long limbs. She wonders if he played basketball in high school? She doesn’t ask. Whores are to be seen, not heard.

  The seats of his Audi are leather, soft, warm, nurturing against her bare thighs. She closes her eyes imagining his life as she drifts off, floating in and out of abstract memories.

  He shakes her awake a block later. Her head hits the window but he doesn’t apologize, just sneers, “How much?”

  Clutching her arm, his fingers dig in, hurting her skin. She feels the welling of blood clots forming where corroded veins dwell. She brushes his hand away, adding five dollars to the bill. Asshole charge. “Forty.”

  “I got twenty.”

  Cheap bastard. “For that baby, you can blow yourself.”

  She reaches for the door handle, trying to control the shaking in the pit of her stomach. She needs his money. Oh God, how she needs it. Before the painful cries of hunger rise.

  As she opens the door he pulls her back. “Fine.”

  He presses two twenties into her chapped hands. She wants to throw it back at him, to smash her fist into his smug face. But she takes it, slipping it into her bra like a pro.

  His hand goes for the zipper of his jeans.

  “Wait.” She holds up her hand. Her ruby red nail polish is chipped, worn from scrubbing her dirty hands. Hands that never come clean.

  His face fills with rage. A white-hot anger she cannot escape. It pins her down, sucking the oxygen from her lungs. Fear, real and deep, rushes over her. This is it, she thinks, but he remains still.

  She reaches back into her bra, his eyes watching her every move. Dead eyes, her mom used to say. Swallowing hard, she hands him a foil condom packet.

  Safety first.

  He smiles, showing rows of teeth. She closes her eyes against the waves of self-loathing and gets to work.

  Time is money after all.

  ******

  She closes the door to her small apartment, quiet as a mouse in a house full of starving cats. She needs a few minutes alone, to get right. In her hand is a small container of powder, forty dollars worth, enough to keep the hunger at bay for a couple of days.

  Is it all worth it?

  Sometimes she wonders.

  In the kitchen, a stack of dirty plates and dishes line the sink. The food, spaghetti she thinks, is burnt to her grandmother’s china. Tears grow along her eyelids, but she blinks them away. Crying doesn’t change anything. It won’t clean the dishes or remove the bitter taste of latex at the back of her throat.

  She grabs a spoon from the sink, carefully washing away the blackened debris, scrubbing until the silver shines through. She catches a reflection of herself in the sheen. Bent. Tarnished. Distorted.

  Opening the powder, she scoops a precise measurement onto the rim of her clean spoon. Forty dollars isn’t a lot and she can’t risk losing a speck. She adds water. Pure mountain spring water the label reads. Probably from a fresh natural spring, somewhere safe that smells of pine. She will go there one day, see the mountains, and taste the natural spring life.

  The mixture warms. Dancing bubbles surface.

  It is time.

  Her favorite time.

  Feeding time.

  She fills it up.

  Test the tip.

  Make sure everything is perfect.

  Touching it to her flesh she feels the sting of the heat. Not too hot. Not too cold. Like the three bears, it is just right.

  A sudden cry beckons her. She rushes through the ritual before the cries become too loud to quiet. But she doesn’t really mind. In a few moments, she will experience a pleasure deeper than any natural spring.

  “Baby?” a voice calls from the darkness.

  Her heart sinks. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  He staggers into the kitchen his vacant eyes searching her face. This is her strung-out lover. The man she pledged to spend a lifetime loving, the man who stands by while she sells her body on a filthy street corner.

  “Baby?”

  She knows what he wants, what he needs. But she forces him to say it, to look her in the eye and beg.

  “Did you get it?”

  She nods once. Hating herself. Hating him.

  He pulls her to him. She smells the stink of detoxing sweat and bile. A part of her enjoys his pain, and their need.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” He brushes a piece of hair from her face. “I’ll make it right. One day. I promise. We’ll be a family.”

  Another lie but she’d lost count a year ago. She shoves at him, twisting from his thin, scar-riddled arms. “Don’t. No more promises.”

  She reaches in her bra and throws a small bindle at him. A dime of black tar. Enough to stop the demon inside him. The baggie hits him in the chest, exploding across his sweat-stained shirt.

  Does he realize what she did for that? Does he care? She turns away, unable to watch as he falls to the dirty floor to salvage a hit.

  The cries grow louder.

  She cannot wait.

  She slides the tip in, stopping the wails instantly. Pleasure, pure and simple, rushes through her, washing away her disgust and self-hate. She looks down at the reason she lives cuddled in her arms. A dribble of powdered mother’s milk runs along baby smooth skin. She brushes it away with the tip of her finger.

  A suckling sound brings a smile to her lips. “Hush little baby don’t you cry,” she whispers to the child in her arms. His chubby legs kick back and forth, content to snuggle against her breast.

  The bottle is nearly empty, but his tummy isn’t full. His hunger has diminished but rarely is satisfied.

  Like father, like son.

  Boy

  “Taste me,” boy whispered in her ear.

  Forever.

  Bronze, Silver & China White

  Thank you for joining us. Today’s final event is the 100-meter dash. Jared Rock of the United States is favored in this event, having taken first place in the high jump moments ago.

  Pop.

  There’s the staring pistol, and their off….

  Run Forrest, run. I laughed at the obscure thought. Here I was in the biggest race of my life, and I was unfocused. That wasn’t anything new. Much of my life was unfocused. I’d spent the last ten years living in the haze, waiting for something big to happen. Now that I had a shot, it was fading like the buzz rushing through my brain.

  Jared takes the lead….

  My feet slammed into the earth sending tiny sparks up my nerve endings. The distance between the pack and me increased. One foot in front of the other. ‘Push yourself, boy’ my father’s voice echoed in my head. No pain, no gain. My left calf began to burn like acid slamming into a vein.

  Oh, that’s going to cost him…

  I stumbled, catching my hand against the ground. Bits of gravel bit into it. Run, dammit. I could feel the pounding of the pack at my back. Hear their harsh breath. A cold sweat pooled under my arms, soaking through the cotton of my cheap shirt. The friction rubbed at my flesh, scrapping and tearing. The raw skin burned as salty perspiration seeped inside.

  A little over a third of the race left and Rock still has the lead. However, Miller, in the blue, is closing fast.

  I had nothing left. My lungs burned sucking the oxygen from my blood. My stomach lurched spewing the contents of this mornings breakfast—a half-eaten Heresy bar and a bag of stale potato chips—onto the blacktop. The splatter of chips and chocolate dribbled down my face. Not slowing me down for a second. Runner’s high kicked in, sending a rush of adrenaline throughout my bloodstream.

  Rock is an amazing athle
te. His kind of determination is what makes these games so special.

  The finish line was in sight, all I had to do was keep pushing. The roar of the crowd rang in my ears. The bright yellow tape was yards away, if only I could force myself on. Seizing my last shred of strength, I charged forward.

  And here comes the finish. It’s going to be close….

  Zap. The stinging burn of fifty thousand volts rocked my body. I flopped to the pavement like a fish torn from the sea. Smack. My teeth rattled as I tasted the agony of defeat, and the bitter disappointment of second place. My arms were wrenched behind my back, as a thick-soled leather boot pushed into my spine.

  “Stop resisting,” the red-faced cop screamed, slamming a police baton against my ribcage. “You’re under arrest.”

  I gave up, my limbs going limp.

  “Why’d you run?” another cop asked. “I couldn’t believe it when you jumped off that overpass. Damn, you must have really wanted to get away.”

  I said nothing.

  The cop stood me up, tugging at the silvery bracelets circling my wrists. “I’ll tell you this,” he said. “You’re pretty fast for a junkie.”

  Not quite fast enough, but I’d have four long years inside to train.

  And there you have it, Jared Rock takes the silver. We’d like to take a moment to thank our sponsors: The Pong Su Cartel, the government of Pakistan, Sammy Samieri of the 14ths Street Dealers Association, Nancy Regan for her work in the Just Say No campaign, the DEA, CIA, FBI, and, of course, the Department of Homeland Security. Until next time, this has been a special presentation of the Junkie Olympics.

  Smack U

  (The following is a paid advertisement, and does not reflect the opinions of the author, publisher, or any affiliates.)

  So you want to be a junkie?

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  Call now, as coffins are filling fast....

  Fucked

  We met in a darkened alley across from St. Michael’s parish. The fading lights of the rectory deepened the shadows where evildoers lurked. One look at your red rimmed eyes and I knew your yin was my yang. It was there, in the way your eyes widened when I appeared and how your fingers felt wrapped around me.

  It wasn’t long before you pressed me closely to your emasculated body. Touching quivering lips and stroking cold flesh, I pondered our time together. Love and hate, pleasure and pain, but was it worth the cost? The inevitable goodbye?

  That night you took me home, willingly giving yourself to me, and in return, I was the boy you dreamed about during those long, sweaty nights of tangled nightmares.

  In the dimly lit room of your apartment, you stripped, standing naked and alone.

  “Please,” you begged, voice soft and needy.

  I stroked your warm, pale skin. The vein in your neck pounded as I ran my tip along it. Your pulse quickened under my touch. Blood heated in response. You smiled, a sweet one, meant to tempt me like succubus on a first date.

  I trailed down the column of your throat, tasting the salty sweat-bathed skin. Your hand flexed—long, slender tendons pulling tight under straining flesh. Your blood swelled. I could feel your veins surge.

  “I want it.”

  I did too, but control was the key.

  Slow.

  Don’t rush.

  Take your time.

  Make it last.

  Your body twisted toward me. You sucked in a sharp breath, and I felt a rush of sensual power. You were mine, totally and completely. Mine to own, control, and break. But power was fleeting. As quickly as it came, it vanished and I would be a slave to your master. It was a deadly game.

  One that I will inevitably win.

  Trailing your manicured nails down, looking for the pleasure junction, you whispered, “Do it now.”

  I surveyed you, watching you want me. Your eyes lit with hunger and desire. I smiled and held back.

  Always leave them wanting more.

  “Damn you.” Your face scrunched up like a naughty child.

  You reached for me, taking the tip into your wet, hot mouth. You tasted like apple flavored lip-gloss and poison, like Eve on judgment day. Heated liquid seeped from my chamber, dribbling down your chin.

  Objections and obstructions destroyed, you drew me to you with an urgent and demanding thirst. I poised the tip just above your sensitive skin, waiting for the go-ahead. The quick flash of acceptance and submission. You broke, closing your eyes, waiting for the pain and pleasure. I still held back, wanting to possess you, to swallow your tiny moans of gratification as I slid in.

  You moaned, low and deep in your throat.

  Bracing myself, I entered your pale, pink flesh, slick with warm wetness of blood and desire. Your head fell back, eyes closed in a moment of pure ecstasy.

  A moment that didn’t last.

  I bore through layers of skin, ripping and tearing my way through. You gave a sharp cry. The pain came as I reached my final destination, and pulled quickly out. Friction burned through the thin plastic coating. I shoved myself deeper.

  The process seemed to go on for hours, but the whole thing last seconds. With a final plunge I emptied myself into you. You cried out, a prayer to the heavens or a damming of your eternal soul, I wasn’t sure. Your head fell back and you clutched me tightly.

  I was drained. Spent. Useless now.

  You opened your glassy eyes, smiled, and removed me from your track-marked vein. You licked your lips and shot a stream of blood from my chamber. It arched, and fell silently against the bathroom floor. Fading fast, you licked my bloody tip and slid my bright orange cap back in place.

  Till next time we meet.

  BENT

  “My name’s Sam.” The speaker paused. “And I’m an addict. I’ve been clean for two years.” He licked his fleshy lips. A sure sign of a life spent in the pursuit of dope. There were other signs too, like his yellowing eyes and trembling fingers.

  “Hi Sam,” a smattering of people seated in the basement of the church echoed. I lifted my head from my hands and mouthed the mantra. Like saying hi was gonna keep Sam off the juice. Whoever came up with that shit was an idiot. I shook my head, and listened while Sam confessed his addict sins.

  He went on for what seemed like an eternity. The hot basement grew hotter as minutes ticked by, the sun outside baking the blacktopped streets just above our heads.

  I nodded off, only to awake to a burst of cooling breeze sweeping across the back of my neck. Fifteen heads swiveled to the open doorway and the shapely woman in it. Hidden in the shadows, it was impossible to tell what she looked like, but a stirring of something crawled up my spine.

  She crossed the room, slowly, with measured steps. In the fluorescent light her eyes glowed money green. Golden hair curled around her shoulders and a dark beauty mark marred her pale skin just above the curve of her upper lip. I glanced around for Joe DiMaggio or JFK, anyone to play beau to her Marilyn. But no one stepped up to the plate.

  Sam cleared his throat. “The meeting started at 1:00.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Her hand went to her mouth. “Should I leave?”

  Please, no.

  It had been much too long since I’d felt the stirring of lust or anything for that matter. My fingers flexed drawing the notice of my sponsor, Bill, seated next to me. He frowned, his eyes damning the naked thoughts inside my brain. Bill wasn’t a bad guy. Just a desperate bloke caught up in the whole twelve-stepper hype. Like a lame prayer and brotherly love could keep a junkie sane.

  “No.” Sam paused, his
eyes drifting to the deep-v between the woman’s breasts. “Have a seat. We were just about to go around the room and introduce ourselves.” His tongue flicked out to wet his pudgy lips. “Why don’t you start?”

  She flipped her hair back and slithered into a chair at the front of the room. “My name’s Geraldine.”

  That was it.

  My name’s Geraldine.

  A quick smile touched my lips.

  “And?” Sam pressed.

  She shrugged, her white sweater emphasizing her every movement. My smile turned into a chuckle that earned me a glare from Bill. I held up an apologetic hand. “Sorry mate.”

  Sam shook his head. “How long has it been since you used?”

  “Oh, that. Let’s see. Ten days?” She trailed a manicured nail across her pink lips. The sleeve of her sweater floated upwards, showing off toned arms and fading yellow bruises. She quickly tugged it down.