I fucked her dirty and I was an absolute dick about it. It wasn’t necessary. To take it that far. But I was blind drunk and I lost myself.
I remember seeing her there in the doorway, angelic and innocent with her hair flowing all around her, and me thinking This is how it has to end. She’s too good for me and I have to make her see that.
That was the last rational thought I had. She was warm and soft and wet. The scent of her, the unique salty sweetness that flavors her skin and deepens intoxicatingly between her legs, it overtook me and I was so far gone I couldn’t see my way out.
“Get dressed, Gavin,” I hear her say quietly. “And I’ll let you in on one condition.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Got it. Getting dressed right now.”
The entire time I’m putting my clothes on I’m praying the second part of her condition isn’t “get the hell out.”
I don’t know if she’s scared or just royally pissed-off, but I need to know. I was aiming for the second one but I never meant to make her afraid or actually hurt her.
I pull my clothes on slowly and try to blank it out. I can’t. I’ll never be able to no matter how hard I try.
I told myself I’d just pretend she was one of the others, the ones I used to use as if they were disposable. I tried. I tried that but it was so . . . wrong. The girls I used to fuck liked it that way; they asked for it that way and there was a mutual understanding beforehand. Doing that to Dixie, to my Bluebird, to the girl I would cut my fucking eyeballs out not to hurt, will forever be the worst thing I’ve ever done and I’ve done some messed-up shit.
God have mercy on my black soul, I am a fucking disgusting human being. But there it is. I have mommy issues like a motherfucker. Well, wait. No. Gross.
Fuck.
But my mom never hugged me, never wrapped her arm around me or patted me or kissed me. She never showed me any physical affection because she was always high and in her own universe. I didn’t even know I needed it until the eighth-grade field trip to an art museum downtown where Lindy Preston sucked me off in the boys’ bathroom.
From then on, I was an addict, much like dear old Mom.
I think Lindy has a handful of kids now by a handful of different guys. But blow jobs were my gateway drug. Soon I needed more and even after having full-blown sex, I sought sex with multiple girls at once. Surprisingly, many of them were down with that.
It felt so fucking good, to be touched, to be pleasured that way, as if they existed only for that reason. To let go and just feel. I have a relatively large dick and word got around. By the beginning of tenth grade I had fucked every varsity cheerleader at my school and a few from others.
I used to feel proud of that. Now I feel . . . sick. Sick to my fucking soul, and who the hell knew I even had a soul?
Dixie did once, I guess. Even if she’s still questioning it, she’ll soon know I don’t, or not one worth saving, anyway.
The year she was in Houston, I kept picturing her with some fancy college guy, or the maestro of the orchestra taking her to expensive dinners, wining, dining, and fucking her six ways to Sunday. It drove me insane.
In-fucking-sane.
I became obsessed. I was literally waiting for her wedding invitation to arrive in the mail. I’d missed my shot and I missed her. I missed her so much it caused me physical fucking pain.
Missing Dixie was hell. It was the deepest, darkest pit so when my mom left drugs out on the kitchen table or in the bathroom or in the laundry basket, I traded them for blow jobs in back alleys. They needed their fix and I needed mine. Seemed like an even trade-off.
I can tell you exactly where most downtown Amarillo bars’ security cameras are and what they can and cannot see.
Dallas has caught me more than once. He once yanked me out of a very lively foursome while I was butt naked and swinging at him with both fists. He made me get tested and while everything was negative, I’m not going to pretend I didn’t sweat it pretty hard while I waited for the results to come in.