Herpes Dynamite

It was time and time was a passenger train hurtling towards the wall that would grab her soul and drag her to bottom of its ocean of loneliness and feline companionship. The refuge of beta males in waiting and cold and clammy nights of shit tinged breath in the dark asking: may I make love to you, my wife? She had to get off the train but the affliction he had given her was what anchored her to the seat. That Asian whore had got what was coming to her, but this was something she never spoke of. She rode his cursed meat three more times after the betrayal. Old habits die hard.

The first attempt to get off was a millionaire because that was what she deserved. Years of starvation and finger nails driven into the edge of what was youth’s cliff had proved this. She had found comfort in the consoling nature of a head of lettuce, often snuggling up to one in her many fits of despair. The salt from her tears adding flavour to the otherwise plain, but soporific vegetative flaps. He was forty-five. He had a yacht. She was thirty-five. She had a vagina. It seemed like a fair trade. Her tits had maintained their shape as well, unlike the deflated balloons that her friends sported through those bras that pushed them up into some semblance of gravity defiance. She knew what was underneath, though. Why aren’t yours sagging too? a friend had once asked.
Because I deserve it, she had said. Whatever. They sat across from each other and she was pleased with what she saw. So, how long have you had the yacht? she said.
Not long, he said.
I can’t wait to go on it.
I have something to tell you.
Yes?
I have AIDS.
Oh.
Does that change anything? he said.
Well, yes. I have herpes, but AIDS is much worse.
So you’re not interested?
Ordinarily, I would be. The yacht is a big draw card, but your cock is death and I’m not ready for that, she said and left. She deserved better than that. Yacht or no yacht.

The second attempt was safer. The career public servant with the toddler’s hairdo. The guy she would never have seen if it had not been for that fucking guy and the Asian whore. He bled beta through every pore of his being. He was the guy who had been waiting at the lay away counter for twenty years while every other guy in town tried on the the underpants that he would one day be lucky enough to own. It was his turn now, but would the underpants fit him? She looked at him from across the table, the puppy fat still sticking to his face like shit to a blanket and it jiggled when he laughed. He laughed a lot. She was ok with that. He had most likely never been around a woman as hot as her before. She imagined the life they would have together. This got boring and she eventually started imagining her life with his income. He had been talking the whole time but his words fell on deaf ears that had plugs in them while navigating a hurricane. Deep inside the recesses of that raisin sized brain she gallivanted around the countryside with her friends. She fucked the bellboys at the hotels she would stay at on her girl’s weekends and the college boys that had so much cum they were giving it away to all an sundry. She had something to give them too. He didn’t have to know. As long as he paid for it. She snapped out of it because he clicked his fingers at that vacant look she had been giving him for the previous fourteen minutes. The catatonic stare went beyond the one thousand cock stare she wore on a normal day. Have you been listening? he said.
Sure.
What did I say?
Look, I have herpes. I hope that’s ok. I think this will work.
What?
You heard me.
You have herpes?
Yes.
I’m out.
HOW DARE YOU, she said but he was gone. The dull blade of prejudice cut its way to her heart, but this soon turned to outrage over the fact that only a fool would turn down a ride in a Ferrari all because it had some hale damage. She was offering a life time of rides to the right salary.

The third attempt broke her like the chain smoker breaks the last cigarette in his pack in one of many half-arsed attempts at quitting. Ripped and torn and scattered in the wind. That was how she felt. She had given up on men, so she thought she would try women. A woman the same age as her mother rejected her advances, because instead of opening with some light talk she decided that jumping straight into foreplay would show this old girl was she had to offer. An attempted romantic embrace soon turned into an unlicensed cage fight with Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu moves learnt from YouTube. The old girl got the upper hand. I did not come here to be raped, said the old girl.
I can’t rape you. I don’t have a cock.
You have a lot to learn, girl.
I have herpes.
So do I.
So we can give it a shot?
No, you’re not for me, said the old girl and she was gone as well. She sat there staring through the wall, but she couldn’t see what was on the other side because she was just a thirty-five year old woman with herpes and the wall was coming at her fast.

She sat in darkness for nineteen days, living off cup noodles and the meat from her cat’s now decaying carcass. She had kept the remains so she would have something to talk to. Unwashed and unshaven, she resembled the teenage boy she would never give birth to. Rage filled her loins and burned like the time she tried to scrub away the filth with toothpaste only to find out that fluoride does not do shit for anything but teeth. There were no teeth down there, yet. She got dressed and went to find her truth.

Her truth was in a pub just down the road. Nobody turned around when she walked inside. The guy at the front door asked her for identification until her realised she was female. She could hear their whispers over the music. Judgmental whispers. Everyone in the pub was talking about her but they were all too cowardly to look at her. She reached into her handbag and pulled out the .38 and went to town on the infected souls who were spreading their poisonous whispers on the night air.

Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang.

Herpes Dynamite.

An autistic grin remained on her face even after the doorman had broken a chair on her back, sending shards of timber into his face.

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