Page 56 of Intoxicated
Yet I would still love to get to intimately know a few of those other functions…
I almost dare to intrude upon her morning ritual to ask her to shower with me. At the very least, I’d like to see that naked body getting wet in my steamy shower. Yowza. You know, I got rid of my morning wood, yet here I am acting like a caveman again. Few women get this reaction out of me. I can’t help but wonder if part of the reason I’m attracted to her is because of how unobtainable she really is.
I’m not supposed to want her. She’s a mark. A tigress who plays with her prey before snapping their necks and devouring them. Every inch of her is a trap. She lures me in with promises of mind-blowing sex, but I know that deep, deep down she either resents it or… worse… she doesn’t feel anything at all. I’m another guy she has to fuck to get what she wants. Cher Lieberman no longer knows the difference between orgasming for pleasure and climaxing for her own health.
So I oscillate between wanting mindless sex with her, since we know it doesn’t matter – and wanting to shake her by the shoulders and demand she tell me the secret to her fucked-up unhappiness.
There has to be something. Something that triggered this behavior and turned her into the black widow who leaves men sobbing in front of their families and chucking their grandmothers’ engagement rings into the Puget Sound.
That something will probably be the death of me. We’ll find out if I die with my dick somewhere inside of her. That’s the only way I want to go.
***
“A rich guy broke your heart when you were barely out of high school.” I mix a generous helping of paneer with my biryani rice. The spice level at this Indian buffet isn’t as high as I might like, but I get it. When you’re dealing with Pacific Northwestern palates, you’re in the business of keeping heat levels… low.
Cher doesn’t seem to mind. When she said she wanted Indian cuisine after a long morning and early afternoon of shopping, I knew the place to take her. There’s this well-known Indian buffet right here in Seattle’s heart, Belltown. For a reasonable rate, you can get all-you-can-eat Indian staples that fill your stomach to the point of popping an antacid. The place is quaint enough, even if it doesn’t “pop” like so many of the trendy restaurants around here.
Right. We were having a heated discussion about what turned her into a bitch.
“Nope.” Her freshly-baked nan dips into the bowl of paneer we share. “Never had my heart broken, actually. Isn’t it funny that you thought you’d be the first one to do it?”
“I’ve got it.” My fingers snap as I ignore what she said. “Your mother trained you in the fine arts of sugar-babying. She was a professional sugar baby herself back in the… let me guess… late eighties. Is your father really a CEO somewhere? Ooh, a rich dentist?”
“One of those things is somewhat right, but only because you got lucky with that ludicrous guess.” Cher takes a tender bite of her nan. Her aviator sunglasses perch atop her head, hair now back down and loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing a baggy pink T-shirt that tucks into the same black skirt she was wearing when I rammed it in her for the first time. (Ah, such sweet and spicy memories.) Big plastic bracelets jangle against her wrist. Teardrop earrings brush against her long throat. She isn’t wearing as much makeup today. This is a woman who wanted to dress comfortably for her big day out withme,the man who insisted on tagging along with her modest shopping spree. The only thing missing is a necklace around that lovely neck. Do you think she’ll let me leave a trail of hickies there? How about a pearl necklace? She seems the type. “My dad’s a podiatrist. A successful one, at that.”
“Buuuut…”
“My mom’s never been a sugar baby, as far as I know. Shit, I’m pretty sure she was a virgin before she met my dad. I would bet money on him being the only man she’s ever slept with. How’s them apples?”
“Drat.” I drum my fingers against the table. “You’re a sociopath who gets her jollies fucking over men. Since you’re incapable of understanding empathy or most social cues you haven’t forced yourself to learn, it’s easy for you to use your perceived beauty to…”
“Nope.” Cher continues to chow down on her nan. “I’ve had therapists. A lot of them thought I was fucked up, but never once did they bring up the possibility of sociopathy. Probably because Iamcapable of empathy. For people who, you know, deserve it. Like refugees, abuse victims, and survivors of animal cruelty.”
I sit back in my seat. “Because you matured early, you quickly learned the value of your appearance. Girls didn’t want to be your friend in school, but you always got boyfriends easily.”
She cocks one wary eyebrow at me. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“So I’m right?”
Cher snorts. “I never wanted for a boyfriend, no, but I had friends growing up. Guy friends, girl friends… they come and go with life, as is usual. I’m sort of transitioning between friend groups right now. Trying to decide if I want one bestie, or a wholesquad.”
I honestly can’t tell if she’s joking. Is she joking? Somebody please tell me.
“Honestly, why are we talking about me so much?” Her red lips purse around her glass of water. She puts it back down with a small pop of her jaw. Ice? Between her teeth? Thanks, oral fixation, now I’m thinking about how well she swallows cock. And other things. Right here in front of my paneer and biryani rice. In this public place. In front of these nice strangers.
Ahem.
“I’d much rather crack the code behind Drew Benton.” Cher leans over her plate, elbow on the table and fingers playing with the fine strands of her hair. “What makes this rich playboy so eager to ruin a woman’s life? A woman he doesn’t know. Because, for all he knows, it’s a bastard of an abusive ex behind the will to destroy someone’s life. At least I’m not intentionally hurting people. My exes willingly gave me money, paid my rent, and offered me gifts. What do you do? Go out of your way to extract revenge on behalf of other men.”
Who whittled her such a sharp spear? She’s plunged it right into my gut. There goes my blood and entrails, pooling on the floor of this nice establishment. You know, I eat here about once a month. Sometimes by myself! What is the nice Indian family going to think when they walk out here and see me white and blue on the floor, my dried blood congealed beneath my body? Will they take a picture for posterity? A picture of Cher stepping on my body so she can reclaim her deadly spear?
“It’s a long story,” I say.
“Try me.”
