One-Night Stand with the Archangel Ch. 03

I pat the inside of my right elbow with fingers from my left hand and, pouting that no vein conveniently presents itself, I grab the rubber hose from the box, wrap it around my right bicep as best as I can with my left hand, and cinch it down tighter with my teeth pulling the hose. This is so much easier when I have Darryl or Amber or someone doing this with me. Like I said, I feel a little naughty and selfish right now, so this is the small price to pay for a nice private high. I rub that same spot on the inside of my elbow again and, nervously, put the needle to my skin where a small vein has emerged. I grit my teeth as a little blood comes forth, proof that I don't know what I am doing, and I push the needle into my vein a few millimeters. I plunge the drug into my blood and quickly toss the needle aside, hearing the glass break on the floor. Hyperly I unfasten the hose and toss it too aside. I throw myself back on the bed, holding my bleeding arm, heart racing, hoping I didn't hurt myself, letting the muddy heroin sleep slowly engulf me.

***

I hate people who bang on the door, and even more so, I hate having to answer the door for people who bang on it, especially when I am stoned out of my mind. I have the habit of not knowing where reality ends and the frolicks of my subconscious begin. It used to be frightening to open the door after a severe banging and greet a nine-foot lizard, or my dead mother, or watch the knob turn to liquid in my hands. That stuff used to scare me to death. But I've matured in my addictions, and I've learned to sit back and enjoy the show, not knowing what might come through my door when I am hallucinating. Things still wig me out a little, but more as if I were watching a slasher movie than in fear for my life. Knowing I am stoned takes the fun out of being stoned. In that case, what's the point? Maybe if I wasn't stoned right now, I could give you a straight answer.

Some hallucinations are so beautiful I end up crying. After Jamaal and Scott left the other night I took a few sleeping pills, wanting to return to the deep dream state, where I had been with my archangel Michael, having the deepest and most erotic fuck, only to have been cruelly interrupted by the monotonous reality of analsex with Jamaal. Maybe that is why I love to fuck on heroin, the erotic images in my eyes are much more interesting than the sameness of prostitution, of the same five things done to me over and over by men who cum in a few minutes tops. Fucking on heroin is like being pinned on Mount Olympus and being gangbanged by every god in the Greek heavens. It is heroic, unusual, surreal. Feeling a man's flest crumble into dust in my fingers while he holds me down and screws my tits, or feeling a man's cock inside me like a toothpick making me cum in torrents--sensations reality doesn't let you enjoy.

Fucking on crank, though, is different from fucking on coke. Coke affects your heart, makes you bunnyhorny, makes you hyper. On heroin, you are in a sludgy murky state, unable to move much, always on the verge of passing out. With coke, you are wide awake and aware of every little detail in the room. On heroin, a cock inside you feels at times like an everinflating balloonn that keeps getting larger and larger until you burst--that is, if you don't have some wild surreality to deal with. On coke, a cock inside you feels electric, sometimes like broken glass. The best way I can describe the difference is like this: say you are in a room with six men, and group sex, gangbang, whatever, is implied. If you are on coke, you are going to jump from man to man all around the room and fuck them all until your heart explodes in your chest. On heroin, you are going to lie there on the floor and let them do whatever they want to do to you, and you will stay there without complaint.

I prefer heroin. I like fucking on coke, but I love heroin. Then again, when the spiders crawl all over you because the shit you took is bad, all bets are off.

Bang Bang Bang on the door, hold the fuck on. I open the door a crack to peek at the intruder, the door is pushed in and in strolls Darryl, full of piss and vinegar, in full pimp regalia.

Darryl is a wannabe historian in several senses. He has no trouble telling you how rough his people, as he puts it, folk of African persuasion, have had it in this country, not that he has any solutions of his own, mind you, but he will tell you in detail the tactics used by Nat Turner in the 1831 Slave Revolt, the exact paths walked by slaves over the Underground Railroad, the precise disfigurement of Emmitt Till after being dredged up in the river, and the reasons why Tupac Shakur is still alive. His historical zeal for accuracy is not confined to dates and events, but his attire as well, wanting to play the pimp-for-all-seasons. His dark skin stood out, his abundant biceps and chest, against the blinding white of his shirt and pants and dress shoes and his white suede fedora on his low-cropped head. He was built to play linebacker, with a babyface that undoes his formidable exterior. He has learned the talk of the business world as well as the hoodlum world and can go back and forth easily. He can charm any girl out of her panties, any john out of an extra hundred, any cop out of an arrest warrant. It doesn't hurt that he is a fantastic fuck.

In all this, as a person, Darryl is as detestable as any of the men in this business, either entrepreneur or customer. As a lay, he is a god. As a businessman he is a savant, and I very much thank him for all he has done for me. Without him I might be married to a good man and live in the suburbs with children, now THAT would be horrid.

Even so, Darryl, in my head I am screaming, what the fuck are you doing here, I am so stoned I am half blind, and you said you would be by day after tomorrow.

"Did you decide, Liv?" Darryl got up in my face and hovered over me as to make me back up, a little frightened. His chest was broad, his expression demanding and flaring.

I turned my head down as I spoke, "I'm keeping it, baby." I felt a little shame from betrayal, if you can call this a betrayal. I was also scared he was going to slap me again.

"Wrong answer, bitch, try again." Darryl slapped my right cheek for emphasis.

I tried to push him out of the room. "Dammit Darryl, stop!"

"Decide, Livia." My pushing was in vain. I was the one who ended up on the floor.

"You don't own me, Darryl. Just stop and come back later."

That got Darryl's blood boiling. "I own enough of you to repossess you whenever I want. I got you this palace you live in. I got you in the gym twice a day every day to keep your wide ass from getting flabby." Now on the floor with me, he grabbed my breasts roughly with both hands. "How many fucking surgeries did you have on this, Livia? How many thousands of dollars have I spent on making you this fucking hot?" He pinned me to the floor as he squeezed my tits harder, almost as if to burst the saline bags beneath my mammary glands.

He had me on my back on the floor, and he spread my legs apart with his. He kneeded my breasts hard and firm, making them ache. I clawed at his arms and chest, trying to get him off of me.

"Call 911 again, you little coward bitch. Call that William cat. Call the nigga cop that's always in here. What you gonna tell them?" He moved one hand to my mouth as he cleverly unfastened his fly with the other, his enormous and erect cock pushing forth.

See, this is the difference between being on heroin and on coke. Darryl, on the coke, is obviously angry and hyper and will aggressively fuck anything that moves. I, on the smack, am on the ground, prone, unable to move, not really wanting to except for fear of rape, willing to let every man in the building have a ride. Darryl is the busy bee, I am the willing flower.

I screamed into his hand and tried to bite it. I squirmed helplessly as he forced his mammoth cock into my unready vagina. Despite male fantasies to the contrary, women do not get wet when rape is imminent. It hurts like hell. It is dehumanizing. No woman should ever have to endure it. It is frightening and painful. It feels like being stabbed by a pipe in the most delicate area on your body. No woman is ever asking for it, no matter how provocatively she dresses, no matter how flirtatious and teasing she gets.

Darryl seethed and grunted as his dry cock pumped into me briskly and cruelly. My whole body arched against him as I tried desperately to flee. I clawed at his face, his eyes, his neck, he only fucked harder and with growing cruelty.

Tears streamed out of my eyes as I continued to shriek into his hand. Darryl arched a little and moaned, as if about ready to cum inside me. My poor baby is in me, having to deal with this as well.

Removing his hand from my mouth, Darryl demanded, "Say my name, Liv, and get it right this time, don't play that shit you did with Jamaal."

Moaning behind clenched teeth, I clawed and begged him to stop.

"Say my name, dammit!" He pumped hard into me, making my eyes bulge.

"Oooohhhh my...myyhhhnnnghh!" I was going to say my nigga, my pimp, my Darryl, I really was.

Before I knew it Darryl was sitting on the floor, his cock roughly pulled out of me with a little of my blood on it, dazed, groping to fasten his pants and stand. I don't know what is happening, but there Darryl jumps up and dashes to the open window.

"Michael!" I shout it, having wanted to shout it before, ready to amend it for the sake of my brutal rapist, but as I watch the pimp dash to the open entry by which the archangel enters at the moment of crisis, I could only think Michael did it again, he saved me, he caught Darryl's attention somehow, he threw something at him to get him off of me, I don't know. It is part of Michael's modus operandi. Somehow he got Darryl off of me.

Darryl did his white pants up and hovered at the window in question. I don't know what got his goat, what distracted him so. It had to be Michael. Sure. Only Michael would have such impeccable timing. After hollering out the window at whatever pissed him so, hopefully Michael, he bolted out of the bedroom and into the street, but not before giving one last verbal blast:

"Take care of that bastard you got in that belly, bitch, or so help me I will!"

I felt a little afraid when he talked like that to me before. But not now. I was in pain from the rape and shivering from that, but I wasn't intimidated anymore. My Michael saved the day, I was sure of it. My heart pumped wide and wild at the thought, and my spirit soared, even as I sat on the miserable floor, still hearing Darryl's cruelty in my mind, still feeling his bruising fingers on my aching breasts, still shuddering with his monstrous cock pounding my dry and unready pussy. Even so, over and above all this, my Michael avenged me.

I have the deepest belief it was Michael. It would break my heart if it were just a pigeon that flew in through the window and took a shit on his ass, or some kids peeking in.

The smack and the rape took the energy from me, and though Darryl was certainly real enough, was everything else? Michael? The blood on my thighs, is that truly blood, and if so, is it mine? I lied there on the floor and fell into a deep narcotic-assisted slumber, a little frightened that I wouldn't wake up, even more frightened that I didn't care.

Imagine that, a prostitute shot full of a faith more potent than brutal sex and heroin.