Short Stories

Tinted Visions

She didn't see me this time. Usually, when she does, I get to talk to her. I like talking to Abby. She flirts with me and it's fun. She likes to hug and cuddle, too.

There was this one time we were chillin in her room — well, me, her, this other guy and two girls — and the girls left and Abby slept with the other guy in the bed and I crashed on the couch. But then in the morning, the guy left and she showered and when she came back, she led me over to the bed and we spooned.

Her skin was soft. She smelled nice, too. Sort of musky and sweaty, but in a sexy girl way. Like post-coital stickiness.

Abby's a dancer, you know. I am too. Or at least I like to think so. Especially when she tells other people how good I am. She makes it a challenge — like, "You don't believe me? Well try him out then." Except without really saying that. And they can't disbelieve her unless they do try me. But no one takes her up on the offer. I think she scares them.

People aren't used to being treated like that. I think they should be. It would make life a lot more interesting. That's why I keep her around. Because when I treat Abby like that, she gives it right back to me. It's sassy and saucy all rolled into one. Anyone who isn't either, isn't worth my time, either.

I don't like wasting time. That's why I keep doing things. I'll read or play addictinggames.com or watch porn. Just to pass the time. If I don't I start to think. When I think, I think dirty thoughts. That's when I go find Abby. Watching her clears my head. I like the way she moves. No one else is graceful when they're lounging the way she is. It's because she sits like a guy. She's rugged like that.

I'll swing by her room just to ask her roommate where Abby's at, because she's never in the room. But I always find her. It can be uncanny. When I want to see her, I'll run into her wherever I'm going. The best is when I didn't know I wanted to see her until I do.

She calls me over and introduces me to people I'm never going to see again. She's got lots of friends. I'm the only one that knows all of the others. That's why I'm special.

Most of them wouldn't know another one if they passed them on the street. I can. They've all got a little dirt on them. Not visible dirt, but grime on the soul. You can see it in the way that they carry themselves. Even the ones who look unassuming. They're usually the grimiest. The eyes are the key. A flash behind the surface lets you know. I've got it.

There was one time when I fucked a girl in Central Park. Behind the Carousel. After I came, I put the condom on the unicorn's horn. I bet I made a little kid scream. Fucker. I hope he cried. Little kids are such bitches. I can't stand them. Always whining. Them and most girls I know, anyway. They should all get permanent naptime.

Sleeping with Abby is one of my favorite things to do. If she lets me. Sometimes when we're watching bad TV movies, she passes out lying against me. Her sleepy breathing is sultry.

When the movie ends, I'll carry her over to the bed and dump her in. I crash on the chair. But then she flips down the sheet and mumbles at me to come. Sometimes I already have. She never says anything, just rubs up against me and snuggles in. She's fast out, but I always stay awake. Sleeping two on a twin makes my shoulder sore.

I broke it running from the cops when me and my boy dropped a dime during a palm. That was careless. We were faster than them. They didn't know the neighborhood. We ran into an interior alley and used a garbage can and a fence to get onto a garage roof. We ran to the next one and jumped down from there. It was only ten feet. My pants caught on the gutter and I fell. The crack probably let them know where we were, but we got home. I couldn't really use it, but I played it off for a few days. Then Mom saw me grab the milk with my left hand and made me go to the doctor. My arm was strung up for 10 weeks. That was a bitch.

Kind of like this punk-ass she's with right now. I could fuck him up. Pussy-ass piece of shit. I'm cooler than him. Stupid mofucker can't even dress. Button down and jeans… He's a Zack Morris bitch — straight preppy. All six foot and muscled. Proly got a dick bigger than his IQ. Proly would think that's a compliment. Abby will run him over. And come crying to me.

She'll huff, "Guys are assholes!" And I'll hug her from behind, my arms enveloping her torso, whispering:

"No, dear. That guy's an asshole. Some of us are cool asses… Or have good ones." Abby will laugh at that line. She always does. Then she'll lean her head back against my chest and blow the hair off her forehead out of the side of her mouth.

"Whatever…" And she'll turn to face me, hands tucked up to her chest. "I wish more of them were like you."

Then we have stress-relief sex. Abby gets out her frustrations. That makes her raunchy. I don't even have to work. Except to not come. This is not quickie sex. She always tells me I'm the best. She even told one of her friends to sleep with me instead of being in an on-and-off-again relationship. But the girl didn't want to add to her "number." She's missing out. Abby knows.

I bet that she's just using this guy. He won't notice. Most of them don't realize it.