A Special Place

A woman struts through the front door. She’s a brunette with long legs and a tight athletic body. Even from afar you decide that she isn’t anything special. But neither are you. If you were, you wouldn’t be here. Here is a dive bar full of perverts with very specific tastes.

Some of your peers here have kinks that crystallize in the form of clothing. For instance, a chubby gentleman across the way reps a full body latex suit with a gash ripped in the crotch so that his genitals may dangle freely. A thin leash is tied around his scrotum, wielded by a woman dressed as a fox. Some other fetishes aren’t so easy to deduce. There’s no end to them.

“So,” the brunette says, taking the seat next to you, “how’d you die?” This is a common greeting amongst the folk here. Especially the new ones.

You blink once, twice, and smile a slow and playful smile.

“Auto erotic asphyxiation.”

“What?”

You repeat yourself.

“That sounds interesting,” she says, leaning forward. Her eyelids droop just a tad and she takes a sip of her gin.

“But I don’t know what it is exactly.”

“It’s when you choke- asphyxiate -yourself while jerking off. Some people use gases or bags placed over their heads. Personally, I prefer leather.”

She motions with her hand for you to continue.

“One evening after dinner I tied an old belt around my neck and hung myself from a rack in the closet. My fiance’s sister was in a cocktail dress that night and I couldn’t get over it. Anyways, I died thinking about her legs. Not my fiance’s legs, her sister’s.”

The brunette’s mousy face contorts and she scoffs, pushing back on the bar as if to lengthen the distance between you both. “That’s fucking sick,” she says, “how could sexualize your fiance’s sister?”

You pick one foot off of the splooge stained carpet and cross your legs. This brunette is definitely freshly dead. There are other perverts here that are worse than you. Others are certainly better. Depravity exists on a spectrum after all.

“You’re sick too, aren’t you?” And she is. She knows she is, or she wouldn’t be here. She adjusts herself on her stool and takes a cold, limp, french fry from your plate.

“This is revolting,” she says, spitting the fry into a napkin. You order two more beers.

“The liquor isn’t any better,” you say, “top shelf or bottom shelf, it’s all the same.”

“Why would you do that?” she says. “Didn’t you love your fiance?” You can’t tell if she’s serious or not.

The brunette twirls her gum around her finger and sucks it off, rolling her tongue across the tip as one would an ice cream cone.

“What do you think?” you say, “For a more fulfilling orgasm.”

“And who found you like that, dangling in the closet?”

“My fiance.” Her eyebrows arch.

“Scandalous,” she whispers.

“How old are you?”

“Well I was twenty-two when I passed.”

You want very badly to go home and crawl into bed with the woman you loved. To eat cereal. To not get eye-balled by a grown man in a diaper. But bed doesn’t exist here. Neither does captain crunch. Or love. Just lust.

She drags you to the bathroom and forces her drooling tongue into your mouth. The kiss is aggressive and so is her yanking on your blue jeans. You pull away, but she pushes you back into a stall of the bathroom. She disrobes. Her panties have a picture of a lion on the front of the crotch. Her ass says juicy. You frown.

It was the worst three hours of your life. You didn’t climax because you never climax, not anymore, not in this place. It’s part of the curse. When you’re done you wipe saliva from your face and mosey back out the bar. The brunette stays behind, slumped and panting on the toilet.

When you get back to the a bar a woman sits perched in your usual seat. She winks, waves you over, and holds a drink up, offering it to you. You pass her and crawl under a booth at the far end of the establishment.

Underneath the booth, among the dried cum on the carpet and bubblegum stuck to the underside of the table, you think about Jessica. You imagine that she’s made a friend, a friend that’s dedicated to her emotional and physical needs. She tells this friend everything she hated about you. She calls you a dog. A pig. She tells him everything she loved about you but that list is much shorter. When she’s done talking, and he’s done listening, they fuck. They fuck and then fall asleep, just like you, except they have beds and cereal.