by Elaine M
Feed Me Back With The Feedback: Please
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A fucking Hallmark word.
Lust, hate, desire, and jealousy: they're all real words. They carry weight;
but love? Fool yourself all you will, but its crap. No such thing.
The love a mother feels for her child - it's primal in most cases. She nurtures
and protects. The child is hers, an extension of her, the person she loves
the most. Herself.
Not that my Ma gave a fuck about me. By the time her coke riddled body revealed
a bump, she was too far gone in her pregnancy to do the only sane thing
and terminate. Instead, she brought another little fuck-up into the world.
A fuck up who became a slayer in what's gotta be the irony of the century.
Chosen to protect humanity from those subterranean evils.
I've never met the fuckers, but the Powers that be, or whoever the hell
deals with the destiny shit must have some messed up sense of humour.
But back to Love. You think you have it? You think that person lying next
to you values you as much as they do themselves? You're deluded. They never
will, you get me?
We're born and we die, and in between we meet thousands of others, all of
them looking out for number one. Then we have these philosophical bastards,
and theologists asking what it's all about.
Well, I've all of a 10th grade education, but I can tell them. Sweet fuck
all. Hear that?
It's all crap, right down to the last letter.
Check out B and her damn soulless vamp of a boyfriend. A love that can never
be. A Romeo and Juliet of the 20th century, complete with orchestral soundtrack.
They're the same as everyone and everything else. Every last being on this
planet is alone. They live, they die, and sooner rather then later they're
forgotten. They can fool themselves, you all can. But deep down you know
it. Know that I'm right.
Look around you, look at all the fucking assholes struggling through life
searching for meaning. Think about what you're crying over, or smiling over
or devoting far too many thoughts and words too and over, and know this.
You're fucking fools. All of you.
B's the type to love. She's a believer. She gives herself fully, not realising
that she'll be fucked over eventually.
She's the slayer, fights the fight, destroys the bad guys to save the good.
She doesn't know that we're all demons.
So I'll tell her.
We're in the bronze. I'm nursing a JD and Malibu. Tastes like shit, but
the kicks worth it.
She's dancing for all she's worth, playing the modest card and pretending
like she's not hot as hell.
My eyes are glued to that tight little ass of hers as she sways to the beat,
her eyes closed, mouth agape like she's in the throes of a big O.
Angel's all broody redemption guy in the corner, gawping at her with a boner
the size of Manhattan hidden beneath his duster. See, they did the vertical
mambo. He O'd and his soul went AWOL. Long and frankly fucked up story short,
he went all Saddam with a vicious bite and she rammed a knife through his
gut sending him to hell.
Unfortunately, the fucker came back, soul renewed. Now they're both all
martyr-ish, what with having the "Love" that can never be.
Anyway, B's a-swaying and Angel's a-staring. There's definitely a big "L"
working its mojo here, but it's not Love.
Red and Oz are in the corner mildly groping. Waiting until the time is 'right'
to hit a home run.
Isn't that fucking lovely.
My glass is almost dry, so I drain the remnants, slam it on the counter
and gesture to the barman for another. He frowns, about to ask for I.D,
but I shoot him a glare reserved for assholes like him and he obliges, distributing
the JD and Malibu equally into a fresh glass.
By the time I've finished downing my first gulp, B's off the dance floor
and heading towards me.
"Hey." All smiles and California goodness.
I offer her the glass and she sniffs, wrinkling her pretty little nose in
"Think I'm ok for the death poison." She grins.
Oh shut the fuck up, B.
"Can't hack it?" Might as well wind her up.
"What's that supposed to mean?!" Big Buffy frown.
I shrug and knock back the rest of glass. "Nothing really, just that
you're a lightweight."
Still frowning, Buffy beckons the barman over. "What she's having."
I stifle the urge to grin. She's too damn easy.
She's on her fourth now, stumbling over her words as she completely misses
the barstool and lands with a thump on her ass.
Angel makes his appearance, all concerned and loved up.
"Buffy, are you alright? I think we should get you home."
Fuck off, Angel.
B hammered has a 'tude it seems, and she's happy where she is.
"I'm fine. Ga hum Angel."
There's my girl. Said like a drunken pro.
This shit goes on for a while, and I watch with amusement until fuckface
finally gets the message and pisses off to lay his corpse somewhere until
B's gargled. I mean, fucking gone. Unless you don't drink, or you're a saint,
you've been there.
She's leaning against me, mumbling all sorts of gibberish when her hand
accidentally brushes against my breast.
What, you think I've got morals?
Fuck that, I'm all revved up and ready.
"Let's go back to mine and sleep it off, B."
Some mumbled crap, but she's letting me lead her. Out the door and to the
taxi rank we go, her head buried against my chest.
She passes out in the cab, and I haul her out and fling her easily over
my shoulder when we reach destination shit hole - that being my most Spartan
I toss a twenty to the driver, heading straight for my motel room. B's jeans
have slipped over her hips, and I'm provided with an ample view of the top
of her ass.
Still carrying her, I slide a hand under her jeans. Under her panties.
I'm breathing heavily as I swing the door open, my fingers kneading the
smoothness of her backside, gently squeezing the firm flesh.
I carefully lower her onto the bed, sliding my body over hers, my breath
ragged. She murmurs in her sleep and I groan as her lips part, her tongue
sliding over her teeth.
With a trembling hand I unbutton my jeans, my fingers impatient as they
come into contact with the moisture between my legs.
I rub, my rhythm gathering speed as my eyes travel hungrily over her form.
Faster. The pressure builds. Faster.
She's stirring, but I can't stop. Our foreheads are almost touching, and
the elbow I've used to prop myself up is shaking.
Her eyes snap open and... God... Oh Fuck... B...
And I'm halfway across the room, the back of my head connecting audibly
with the coffee table.
She's on top of me now, yelling and punching, her digs connecting full on
with my face.
And my pants are around my ankles.
Before she leaves she turns to me, and through the rapidly swelling slits
of my eyes I read her glare.
Hate. A real word. A real feeling.
Thatta girl, B.
She's learning, and I'm more then happy to be her teacher.