Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette

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I spit in the sink, hoping I missed the unwashed dishes- it just doesn’t seem sanitary.  You pull up your pants, about to hightail it out of my apartment. I can tell you’re great at leaving, you have an ease in your step as you prepare to go.

“It was good,” you compliment, casually. You hope giving kudos will create a return ticket back to my bed, though your loins want my mouth more than my body. You don’t call it a fetish, as it’s what normal people do. They pick up women at a bagel store and invite them to tea. Then, suggest martinis and kiss like they’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places and long to settle down.

You made nice at first, when you made love. You stared deep into my eyes and talked about the blue of them being like an ocean. In truth, you saw a storm which scared you. I seemed cloudy, as though I saw through your act. This was humbling, it usually took women several months. Immediately you asked how I knew.

“It was nothing specific.” I explain, glad to have it out in the open. “First, your name is Dave- and every Dave I’ve ever met has played women like fiddles. Not all Daves are like that, but the ones I’ve met have been. Then, there’s the fact that you ordered twelve cinnamon raisin bagels. What man do you know who would rather have cinnamon raisin when they sell onion or sesame? You were trying too hard, I knew it right away. At tea you kept fidgeting and didn’t stop until you suggested martinis. On top of that, you picked a bar that was near enough to my place that you wouldn’t have to waste money on a cab.”

You’re floored by my description. It’s like I aired your internal banter through a mega phone. We stop making fake love and switch to straight up, old fashion sex. We move from the bed to the kitchen floor. It feels better though less fulfilling. You pin my hands against the  flooring and tell me to scream your name. I try, but after so many bad experiences with men named Dave, all I can shout is “David, you motherfucker!”

You generally like dirty talk, but that particular phrase, motherfucker, just doesn’t sit right. Your grandmother always called you David. You don’t usually introduce dirty talk to one night stands, but if you happen to see a girl more than once, you usually call her a slut and see how she takes it. Motherfucker makes you mad though, mad enough that you call me a bitch.

“You called me a bitch, bitch?” I counter flipping onto all fours and waving my derriere in the air, like my naked body is now off limits. “Well, at least I’m not a cheesy ho-bag who wears a fucking plaid shirt and brown tennis shoes. What, did you borrow your daddy’s clothes?”

You tell me your dad is dead. I’m not sure it’s true, but you look kind of sad about it, and I apologize. You work the magic of your hands on me, in apology. Grateful for the orgasm, not thinking straight, I offer to service you in other ways.

Only problem is, I just read a newspaper article, the day before, about the dangers of unprotected oral sex. I look from your face to your penis, to the newspaper on the living room coffee table. I decide that one more time won’t hurt. However, it does hurt, as the whole time I’m pleasuring you, I’m envisioning myself at the clinic getting a free HIV test. It’s stressful trying to find the one.

It’s stressful for you too, always pursuing new women to sleep with. You don’t get much credit for it. If people knew how much work you put into your conquests, they’d be impressed.

We exchange phone numbers. You kiss me goodbye, on the cheek. It’s formal, polite. You accidentally leave your bag of fresh baked cinnamon raisin bagels. I toast one until it’s crisp and apply a slather of cream cheese. I enjoy the flavor. I swallow it down.

The End 

Jennifer Donnell is originally from Southern California. Her recent and/or upcoming publishing credits include: Pure Slush, The Scrambler, Bohemia Journal, Sapling, Speech Therapy Poetry, Borderline, Young American Poets, Orion Headless, SIC 3, The Scarlet Sound, Don’t Blame the Ugly Mug (Anthology- Tebot Bach), Poetix, The November 3rd Club, Bestiary Magazine, The Criterion, Astarte, Deep Tissue Magazine, East Village Poetry, A Few Lines Magazine, Artistica, Negative Suck, Perhaps I Am Wrong About The World (Upcoming), and a winner (poetry) through the city of Laguna Beach- 2009, 2010, 2011. She is currently seeking to publish her first full length collection of poetry, and is nearing completion on a graphic novel.  http://ilovejenx.com