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Beautiful adult searching casual encounter adult dating and fuckingMcPherson took you home. m4w *"you brought me here to fuck me didn't you," she says with a cigarette a half-hour later in her voice.*

*

*i lie myself into believing i want to understand why she's here. i look through the windows to her soul. they're light blue, her eyes, and have a calm intensity. they say something terrifying. i lie myself into believing it's a promise, lie, or both.
i desperately want to believe it's hope i see. like a miniature sail-boat on the pond in central park during the summer. it could be the hope of a drunk who's had enough floating down the east river on a winter morning. my truth keeps repeating i'm full of shit.
it's passionately ignored.
she's been drinking but isn't slurring her words or stumbling. this helps me not loathe myself (more than usual) for her presence. without breaking eye contact she bites her lip. she sees it makes me nervous. the guilt i'm fighting's harder to detect.
"you brought me here to fuck me didn't you," she says with a cigarette a half-hour later in her voice.
there're a few moments of silence. i've had enough. softly, my voice jumps into the east river.
"i'm only a man."
her expression changes with the speed of a hustler hearing sirens on rivington and allen. (back when they still stood on the corner. when they didn't have to hand out business cards for tutoring services subtly referencing narcotics. when i wasn't on them.)
she waits before replying, "yeah, you are."
she looks away from my green eyes and turns her gaze to the coffee table near her knees. it might not be meant for my ears but she whispers, "i guess you aren't my prince either."
i decide no response is best. i look at her. she doesn't look back. i can't see her eyes well.
i make due. i like looking at her hair. it's blonde. very blonde. bleach-blonde. almost white. i ran my fingers through it when we spoke in the dimly lit blackbird parlour a block from the bedford l stop.
the blackbird isn't far from the loft building i live comfortably uncomfortable. we're inside its thin walls these moments. our skinny bodies are seated across from each other on vintage furniture found on trash days.
on trash day lady-luck smiles at my mild-mannered, 35 year-old, kind, gay, and corporately cordial roommate.
i rise to my feet speaking quietly, "i'm going to get a piece of fruit. would you like one? there's apples and bananas. the bananas are really brown though."
she doesn't speak. only shakes her head. my lanky body rises, walks, and picks up one of my roommate's apples. it's difficult to tell which are bruised in the dark kitchen. the street-light filtering through the windows near us doesn't reach the bowl. i pick one at random.
i look at her. she continues staring at the coffee table. there isn't anything interesting on its surface.
my spirits are ground out on the sidewalk. i sit down and shift the apple from one hand to the other without biting. getting it was unnecessary. i'm not hungry. i feel childish. a few moments pass.
she speaks. the guiltless passion's left her voice. "that tattoo in the crook of your left arm has scabs on it."
"yeah. it's new. i got it last week."
"why?"
"it would've happened a month ago. the guy that put it there cancelled twice. same day. guess life happened to him twice without caring about ink getting into me."
the muscles around her mouth seem to tense and relax. i think she almost smiled.
"that's not what i'm asking. why'd you get it? why'd you get them all?"
this question's asked a lot. i volunteer the answer even when it isn't. i don't need time to formulate a response.
"it started because of my scars and bad skin. i wanted distractions."
i point to a pronounced scar on my upper cheek. i pull down the guinea tee inside my open short-sleeve shirt. this exposes a deep scar on my sternum. it's ugly but she doesn't wince. if she did it wouldn't bother me much.
it's a response i've grown accustomed to.
"there's more. a lot more. eventually the reason changed. i started commemorating people, places, times, emotions, or just where i was in my mind. it wasn't intentional. my skin, with all these scars, tattoos, and unpretty marks is my scrap-book."
"that's poetic. almost admirable."
when she finishes i pause. there's no emotion in her voice. she said "almost admirable." it's unclear if she's being sarcastic. i decide it isn't important.
she asks, "what's the scabby one about?"
"it's about my 'good' ideas after midnight. it's about wanting sunrises and roses. it's about trying to substitute one for the other even though it's clearly failing. it's about loathing myself while i'm lost in brooklyn."
"that's poetic. almost admirable."
there's more silence before she resumes with aggression.
"revolting. i'm one of your 'good' ideas after midnight aren't i? you're on another break from hating slash feeling sorry for yourself? i could end up a tattooed scrapbook piece from this cliche period you're searching for love?"
"yes."
i pause, look into her eyes, and see what i need to. i whisper, "and i don't think i'm something too different to you."
she looks back into me like she's searching for something. i think she finds it. this might be bullshit though.
she speaks with calm matter-of-factness.
"sounds about right."
our business is concluded. we've gotten what we need from each other.
a few moments pass.
she speaks.
"should we kiss?"
it's too long after midnight to act surprised.
"do you want to?"
"not really."
she lights a lucky strike. my roommate and i don't smoke in the loft. i choose not to object. through the dirty windows the sky looks lighter. the sun's probably rising. it's difficult to tell through thick clouds.
her and i don't speak anymore. however, the awkwardness drowned during our time together. every once and a while there just isn't anything left to say. i enjoy the silence and feel a pang of hunger.
i take a bite of my roommate's apple.*

*

26 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)

*

-one night stand-
*by someone who can swim
in an empty idea until he drowns*
(frankie leone, just a man)

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