“Shot gun me,” she laughs, digging her body against mine.
I shrug, taking another puff and blowing the smoke at her. She purses her lips and sucks it in, coming closer, closer, until her lips touch mine. She pulls back and smirks. “You're really cute. Your eyes, I saw them from across the street,” she giggles. She runs her hands up my right arm and the side of my face. She touches me like she has the right. I clench my fist, stopping the hand from grabbing her throat. “I like the scars. It makes you look tough. What happened? Your brother said it was an accident, but he didn't tell me what,” she asks as she unbuckles my belt.
What happened is none of her fucking business and my scars are not a novelty.
My dick is hard, but that's because it's still waiting to complete what I started with Vesp this morning and the slightest contact gets it at attention.
She kisses my neck. “You know, Scoot told me about your stuttering. How you get nervous around women and it's so bad it almost makes you mute. I don't understand it, you're gorgeous. Who cares about what you have to say? Anyway, I think it's kinda cute how you get all tongue-tied…”
She's thinks this is all a fucking joke. My speech impediment. My scars. As if those appeared out of nowhere. As if my scars don't come with memories of intense agony. Or a lifetime of never being taken seriously because the complex thoughts in my mind are butchered fragments by the time they reach my lips. Now both of my hands are balled and trembling, the ember on the end of the joint singeing the palm of my hand before it goes out. My breathing deepens as she lazily plops her body against mine. She smells of sweat-tainted perfume, beer, and cigarettes.
“You know, I don't care,” she says in her best messy seductive voice, as she runs a finger along the rough skin on my shoulder. “You're still sexy,” she adds, yanking down my pants. “Oh wow!” she starts laughing. Laughing at my cock.
I grip her hair at the roots and ask “What the fuck is so funny?” The beast is out. It shouldn't be. Not here. Not so close to Scoot's house.
Milly's body goes rigid against my pull. Her lazy breathing stops suddenly.
“Nothing,” she answers soberly. “I mean it's really nice. I was shocked at ya know, its girth,” she says, like a kid trying to get herself out of trouble.
“You think this is all funny? Huh? You want to tell all your southern society friends about how you sucked off a twenty-something stutterer who looks like he was dragged along the back of a truck?”
“I—uh—I didn't…”
“Then do it,” I say, pushing her down to her knees and shoving myself in her mouth. Let's see if she can laugh now.
At first she resists, but it's not much. I've had fighters. No, she relaxes and starts running her mouth along my shaft. It's a mouth and it feels good, but I don't want this. I planned on the perfect tableau. I have a better mouth and pussy waiting. A perfect one. Clear-eyed, not drunk and sloppy. Modest, not this tramp who expects every man to fawn over her sexuality. Someone who is subtle and nuanced, not this fucking human equivalent of a blow horn.
“Get the fuck off of me,” I say, pushing her to the ground.
“What?” she asks, wiping her saliva off her chin. I'm a little surprised she's mounting a resistance.
“Go suck Scoot's cock. I'm not interested. You're tired and pathetic.” I throw the joint at her face.
She stumbles onto her feet, and into the path of a floodlight, where I see mascara running down her cheeks. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asks. “One second you're nice and shy. The next you're fucking kinky.” She wobbles a bit, but finally plants her feet. “You know what? You should be begging me!” she yells.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” I sneer, stabbing a threatening finger in her direction.
“Fuck you. You're pathetic. Too scared to talk to girls,” she mocks in a baby voice. “I was being nice, you know? I can tell your brother was trying to push us together. Fuck you! You fucking freak!”