Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 3

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The next hour was a blur of moments stuck together with ego and cock. There was much talking, much grinding, much wondering and a lot of smiling. A spate of kisses on lips and neck. The smell of her hair. The looks she gave. The smile. If I was younger, I’d be in love. I would be all over her like static-charged plastic. If she tried to shake me, I wouldn’t fall off. But that was years ago. That was weeks ago. That was hours ago. The now said I was in command. I was the center, not her. I was being leaned in to. I was being returned to. I was the Earth and she the little specks of nothing that fall into orbit, fated to get burned up.

Spike still wasn’t having a good time due to her overwhelming moral requirement to watch Seasons. My words of safety did not ring with her, apparently. I didn’t blame her. From what the tits with a mouth said to me, truth or lies, the girl was at very minimum a mental slut. With alcohol, she’d lay down for the Pope. Even with the honorable code of not-letting-your-friend-fuck-everything, Spike’s hovering act annoyed me. I had encouraged her to go do the electric play. I left Seasons’ bouncing ass so she could hang and make her friend happier, hoping it would pay dividends. The guy who smelled like a store’s absence didn’t help either. Luckily, Spike usually just kept an eye, which at least gave room to have her friend’s ample affection focused on me. But I couldn’t ever really get really aggressive or risk Spike getting the wrong idea.

“I like to be a girl,” Seasons told me. “I don’t get why girls try to be guys.” I inferred that she was talking about Spike.

I set my face slightly against her hair. “I don’t either. Girls and girls and guys are guys. I like feminine girls.”

“Its just not sexy.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“They called me sexy,” she turned against me to point at cowboy and cat. “When people call me sexy, I just can’t help myself.” Her eyes were ablaze. Head pointed down slightly, eyes pointed up. Lips parted. Her tongue hidden from view.

I looked back at her and paused for a moment. I didn’t even have to think of what to say. It was on the way to my vocal cords before the process that used to be my way of thinking even could conceive of the event. Straight game. Straight player. Pure fun. I extended the pause for dramatic effect, then: “Let’s hold off on that.”

She huffed and puffed, but she smiled like I had found her verbal clitoris and got even closer. I kissed her hair again, locking my hands on to her ass.

Closing in on 1am, she wanted to go back to the floor and dance. I was talking with M and C, they sighed, rolled eyes and smiled at the same time. As I was being dragged, I told C that after this I’d lose her. C looked happy. I wanted to hang with them more before we had to leave, before I left Salt Lake City for God knows how long. C had a warning signal for when Seasons came around, “Boots! Boots! Boots!” Before, I’d be offended by such things. Instead, I laughed. Her hand hooked in mine, the club bunny pulled me into the crowd. Spike began her awkward dance, again, while my girl returned to growing cock between her ass cheeks. I thought I’d have to bail like I did before when Spike kept checking her phone every thirty seconds. I focused on Seasons, hoping for something good to happen. And, like the landing of an angel upon the three spires of a Orthodox Church, Spike’s man showed up, in style. BAM! The sour, dour and partypooping bisexual punk who was “into girls at the moment” lit up. Fireworks in her eyes. The first real smile I’d seen all night. The energy exploded from Seasons. Gyrations increased their frequency. She intertwined her fingers into mine, bringing them up upon her tits, both the underside bra and the naked skin above. She moved her hair and I obliged over and over. When she leaned her head back against my shoulder I kissed her. I looked over and saw Spike and her boy do it as well. Few minutes later, Seasons leaned back again and I gave another kiss, this time I invaded her mouth. When she pulled back, the spark and the smile said it all.

This was a girl who must of gotten constant attention for her breasts and her outgoing personality. Twenty-one, single, open to fucking and able to get drunk in minutes, there must have been a line to fuck her (or realistically, a line that already had), but apparently her hamster was rolling ’round and ’round in circles unable to get off its ride from Hell. First, it was my straight forward kiss that set it on a healthy trot. Then, my leaving her, then wanting her to come back. The lack of clinginess. The lack of compliments. The agreement with her bad ways. The cockiness. The (slight in my view) aggressiveness (fucking Spike!). And what topped it all off was, about thirty minutes before she took me to the dance floor for that last long and lip-locked session, Spike had told her I was from out of town, taking my attempt to calm her nerves as an admittance of outsider. In a conversation about where we live, she got confused that I told her I lived in Sandy, a city near where I had a place only 11 hours before.

“No, I’m moving,” I corrected her.

“Where are you moving?”

“To New York,” I said. I hated getting conversations railroaded by the Canadian excitement. Oh Canadian EH? How is Canada? Is it cold? Fuck that. Wasn’t going to let it break the perfect momentum of alcohol, sadness and wet panties.

M was sitting right beside us and turned to me, “What’s she asking?”

“Where I’m going,” I told him.

“To Canada,” he belted, before I had a chance to inform him of my sly location misinformation.

The look on Seasons face was priceless. I leaned back to M and told him of my fib, then turned back to the poor girl and used my hands and the invisible map of the United States to show her where New York was. “Here’s California and the West Coast,” I said, pointing to my left. “here’s Utah,” pointing slightly inland, “and here New York.” My finger flew pretty far to the east. “And here’s Canada” Pointing above the imaginary Empire State. “Its close to Canada.” She was still blinking. I had a city all set out and everything. Albany. Nobody knows or wants to know about Albany, New York. But, she got the gist. Then she came close and laid on me, telling me that I’m losing out on a great fuck buddy. She regaled me with stories of future threesomes, booty calls, hot fucks and sweat-soaked bodies. My cock barely budged at the talk. My mind was calm. My sights clear. I nodded and agreed, giving sympathetic words to her about what she’d be missing. The sadness was supposed to be mine, not hers. Alas, that’s not how the game is played.

After about twenty minutes of dancing and kissing, I looked at my phone for the time. I needed to go hang with my former co-workers. Hands on her smooth tits, squeezing gently, I told her I need to go and she needed to come see me before she leaves. She nodded, we kissed and I walked back to M and C, telling them of Spike’s good fortune. We finally got C to go pursue her furry fantasy that she’d be spying on all night She rushed to the stage to check him out. According to her, he was a decent looking guy. I would of lost a bet if the bar hadn’t closed at 1am. I had hoped there was a girl under all that costume. We talked of the rock-hard abs of a chick who had the energy of pure speed. C said she had stretch marks, which lead me to believe she was formerly obese. Her lack of body fat, her bouncing fake tits and the way she danced forced us to name her Jazzercise. By the time the costume judging had began, I got a text from Lana asking if I was staying longer or if I’d leave with Adrian. At that moment I saw Seasons and Spike walking back to the corner to say goodbye. I quickly typed and sent Adrian back to Lana as Seasons, looking truly sad, told me again of what I’d miss and that she wished me a safe journey. Using the motion I had all night, I beckoned her with my index finger and gave her a long kiss. Then, as she turned around I put all the held back aggression into my hand. All the times I didn’t pin her against the wall. All the times I didn’t bite her neck. All the times I couldn’t guide her hand to my crotch. All the times I couldn’t fuck her on my couch, my bed or my recliner. All the shit I had gone through for months for a cunt of a wife that left me with debt, hurt and my longest dry spell since high school. All that went into my hand, which slapped against her ass with a satisfying compression of air, pleather and buttocks. “Now get going,” I said and turned around, not giving her a second look. I looked to M and C, who were smiling. I was smiling, too. We hugged and said our goodbyes. I felt a pang that we didn’t have more time to spend together. I was just getting to know everyone on my own, with my own Spike watching every move, recording every moment.

As Adrian and I walked out of the club into the chilly air, it took a few seconds to light my American Spirit. Without the additives, the thing takes as long as a cigar. In that time, M and C had passed us walking out to M’s car so he could take C home. I looked to the tall, lanky and great friend Adrian, a man I had not liked all that much when married, but had stepped up and was there for me when the shit hit the fan. I took a long drag. As I exhaled, I pointed out my friends and said, “I really hope they get together. That man needs a good woman.” Adrian laughed. We walked down a block, crossed the street and got in Adrian’s modified two-door racer. Of we went to the after party at their place.



I was never really in charge. I was never the dom that I thought I was. I was the slave holding the leash. I was the dog walking itself. Things happened because she wanted it. She got the best side of the beta and then walked away.

Five months of hell I walked. Five months of hard work and emotional breakdown and hate and love and pining and attempts to change and no change and friends, good friends. Five months of temptation and control and loss and loss of control and shit shit shit shit shit. Five months of months going by like bullet trains. Months lost to monthless moments. Months gone, never to return.

One night. One day. One kiss. One reason. One godless world run by godless heresies. Her ass in my crotch. Her intoxication. Her disposable body. Her sad face. Her smell. Her taste. Her eyes. My realm.

That was me in those eyes.
That was me in control.
That was me focused and on fire.
That was me in charge.
That was me on her tits.
That was me with her hips.
That was me.
No one can take that away.

“You’re your own man now,” said my uncle, smiling at me.

“My own man, for once,” I corrected.

I had told him I wasn’t going to leave his California home that he welcomed me in to for as long as I wanted. I had told him that I decided to cut my trip short and stay. I wanted to stay. My friends, my old co-workers, told me of the gold of being your own boss. He fired, she quit. On their own. Making what they could, together, free. I wanted to feel the sun and the breeze and see the peaks and the palm trees and drink up the dystopian paradise that is California. I couldn’t help myself. My being had given its ultimatum. It wanted the gifts of human delusion. It wanted the juice of self-deception. It wanted the command of the unaware and the unprepared. It wanted it all, and I decided to give it what it wanted.

For the first time, even while the tears streamed down my eyes, staring out at the blue-orange-red sky above me, sitting on the swing bench, I did something truly, fully and inexcusably for myself. The hate and the time and the worthlessness came out.

I no longer had to hate her.

She no longer mattered.

She was the dust blowing above me.

She was gone. Disappeared. Dissolved.