Well, I’ve been up since 2am.
I stayed in bed, watching flat earth debates, until 7am, then decided that I’d hit the bag and lift weights until I got tired enough to sleep until noon.
Didn’t work, it just gave me energy—what the fuck.
Feeling mentally exhausted and physically amped fucking sucks. It’s such a head fuck.
Instead of going back to bed to watch more flat earth videos, I brewed a gallon of coffee and got to reading; an activity that usually helps my mind wind down enough to go to sleep when I’m tired….but nope, still wide awake.
So then I decided to cook breakfast for the house. I kept it simple today: a jalapeno, mushroom, calabaza and spinach scramble with bacon and English muffins.
I usually don’t eat breakfast because food makes me incredibly tired, but today, that’s what I wanted, and guess what? Didn’t fucking work.
So I started writing.
First, a satirical listicle called: 5 Tips for a Guiltfree Suicide
I probably will never publish it, but it was fun to write, and it helped release a lot of anger I have for banal listicles about mental health.
Then, about hour ago, I started back on my second draft of the first story I published on here: Luna C. Soledad
I deleted everything I worked on last week because I’m a self loathing bastard. I’m about to do the same thing. The insomnia is amplifying my already roaring self loathing, and my sleeping pills are no longer working. It’s rough.
Anyways, here’s what I’m on the verge of deleting—tell me if you like it, hate it, loathe it, despise it, abhor it or any other synonym for vehement disgust.
I met Luna in the back of a grungy goth club on Haight Street.
My night started at a company party held at SF City Hall, which I only attended for the open bar. The people who organized the party really fucked up by not choosing the type of booze that would be sold, resulting in myself, and my fellow underpaid coworkers, skipping the dinner, opting for hors d’oeuvres in between taking shots of the type of aged scotch you’re supposed to sip on throughout the night, committing booze blasphemy, and destroying the chances for even a ‘beer only’ open bar at future company parties.
It was around eleven when the bartendress told us that the bar was closing up. She was a short Asian girl with a collage of tattoos running from wrist to shoulder and a lip piercing she played with in a way that made every man she served think they had a chance with her. I properly tipped her 1/5 of what I would have spent. Bartending’s a rough job, right below Public Defenders and Sewage Treatment Workers, so tipping them well is mandatory, especially at an open bar. She saw the Franklin and poured me one last full glass of scotch while biting her lip slightly different than I’d seen her do the rest of the night. She wasn’t just playing with it; she was inviting me to play with it.
I went for it, “Did you get that piercing to satisfy your oral fixation.”
She softly ran the tip of her tongue up the inside of her lip, pushing out the piercing slightly, answering my question without words, then asked, “How did you know?” with feigned innocence. I knew what type of girl she was. A hot flash of all the lovely debauchery her and I could do all night long filled my mind: whips and chains and vibrators and ball gags and scratches and bruises.
I snapped out of my nightdream after cumming on her face and said, “I used to have one when I was a kid. My oral fixation had me playing with it to the point my lip would swell up.”
She glanced at my lips, and we both imagined her biting them.
Before I could ask about the other piercings I imagined she had hidden beneath pretty lingerie, a man from across the bar yelled, “Are you just going to stand around and flirt. You have glasses to wash and the counter to wipe down,”
She grabbed a napkin, and wrote her name and phone number on it.
“Give me a call sometime.”
Before walking away, she plucked a cherry off the counter and handed it to me.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“For your oral fixation.”
She sashayed away, looked back and tongue fondled her piercing one last time for me.
I sat in front of the bar for a few minutes to allow my erection to settle down, then walked out of the building to an oddly warm San Francisco night.
I think the bartender is going to be another Luna in the part two I’ll likely never finish :).