Ad-Rock screams into my ears, penetrating my muscles, compelling me to play the notes with precision. Kunal's on the drums, locked in a trance that makes his hands a blur. The energy radiating from the giant speaker next to me threatens to knock me off my feet.
Sex makes me uncomfortable. Sure, I like it. Yet, the carnivorous aspect of coitus has always been lost on me. And here, in this Houston home with a red light in the window flagging down gays like the Bat Signal, everyone is ravenous.
Mark was the one who had recommended "Summer of Night" in the first place. “You’re gonna enjoy it, I’m sure. It’s so Stephen King-ish,” he said to me during one of our summer chitchats. The book fell into oblivion then, mostly because we were too busy making out.
After years of tumultuous marriage, Mom and Dad are finally splitting up. Mom has been apartment hunting and Dad’s all packed up. On top of that, they caught me smoking weed this morning and are furious about it.
“Where the money at?” The ringleader walks around the back of the couch, letting the barrel of the gun drag across the tops of the cushions and brush against our shoulders. The cold steel scares the shit out of me.
I plop down on the carpet as the familiar Star Wars opening crawl takes over the TV screen, filling me in on events that occurred a long, long time ago. 4000 years before Episode I. Whoa. That was unexpected. That must be the “old” in Old Republic.
Nick was the Diablo to my Cain. Only the red skin, horns, and lordship over the underworld were missing. In their place was a skinny, hatchet-faced kid who was bigger and stronger than me and as mean as the Lord of Terror himself.
Finally, it was home. It was us. We made ourselves feel comfortable despite the circumstances. I thought no one could take away the feeling of home. Then again, things happen. That’s where you come in.
Mark gazes upon that tight body of yours: perfect curves and insanely long legs. Your eyes are a cheeky promise nested behind black-framed glasses. You even have a sexy little birthmark on your chin, which gives you the look of an adult film actress.
See, this way, I can prove I’m smart — an urgent need as I continue to fail spectacularly in French or algebra. I can prove it, in particular, to my Dad. Beat him at his own game, make him proud — it’s flawless logic, no?
The score thumps: a primal leg stomp, like a slowing heartbeat. A friend reaches over and places two comforting hands on my shoulders, as if the movie is a projection of what’s going on in my head.
She takes hold of her ebony Queen. I can’t help but admire the piece, its intricate details standing out against the contrasting background of her pale skin. “I can’t believe you gave up your advantage,” she says. She knew what I was going to do before I did it. It’s like she can see my future. But I can’t see hers.
Football Manager has become my reality. I’ll easily spend seven or eight hours playing some days. I haven’t told many people I play Football Manager because, well, I'm a woman.