Sex and Livestock: A Short Story

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I went to school in Baltimore and it’s a very strange city. It’s hard to describe, really. I’ve been away for a while, so here’s a very short something/nothing from my Baltimore days. More unkilled darlings.

We’re drunk enough to think it’s the end of the world. Run around like chickens with our balls cut off. Jack hollers something about circumcision. Wrong operation, but now he’s committed. Goes for the only sharp knife I own, but Dan’s quicker. Throws the blade out the window and doesn’t look to see if it skewered anybody down there. Jack laughs and they argue about genitalia. Boys and their dicks. I never quite got it, myself.

The rum’s gone. We didn’t have rum, but we still lament. The rum’s come to represent the handle of vodka we killed. Drew warrior lines under our eyes with my red lipstick and slaughtered that nail polish remover. And now we’re drunk enough to think we need more. Drunk enough to think the bottom of the bottle is the end of the world. We’re making our own Mayan calender tonight, and it’s run on the consumption of alcohol. We’re more realistic than those fire-dancers. We get it.

We get it in our heads that going out’s a good idea. Never mind the hour or the rain. This is the decent part of town, anyhow. We want to breathe God’s air before the apocalypse. Smell the heavy, stagnant odor of Baltimore. A little of yesteryear’s metallic fragrance with the hint of homeless men’s pee. Great stuff. We want to scrape our knuckles on the formstone rowhouses. But mostly, we want to find a liquor store and reload.

We stumble down eight flights of steps. We find that friends who stumble together, fall together. Warrior wounds, we say. Jack’s got a winner. Blood oozes out a slash above his right eyebrow. He puffs out his chest and struts. Dan pushes him and we race out of the building.

We never get to a liquor store, obviously. Too young and stupid. Jack says the metal benches are sparkling in the streetlamp light and lies down. He wants to shine, he says. Dan doesn’t pay him much attention. He always let Jack have the spotlight.

I see headlights in the distance. I’m not a smell-the-roses kind of girl, but tonight I’m feeling philosophical. Blame it on the alcohol, or the indie movies, or maybe just my instinct of stupid curiosity, but I want to get it. I want to dance with fire.

So I slip my shoes off. The road is wet and I feel the dirt crumble under my soles. The headlights are twirling towards me fast. I stop breathing for a moment. Dan says something about getting out of the way. Even Jack chimes in with a look out, or what the fuck! Noise. They don’t understand. The rum’s gone.

I close my eyes. My body tenses. More stupid instinct. My eyelids turn orange before I go down. Slam my head on the pavement and lose the air in my lungs. A great pressure all over. I think it’s happened. The apocalypse. The rapture. Whatever. But my eyes open and Dan’s on top of me, and not the way he wants to be. His warpaint has smudged, deranged clown style. Jack runs over and he pulls us both off the road. I see taillights dim into the distance.

One of them demands an explanation. I ask why the chicken crossed the road. They don’t know. Of course they don’t know.

“Because his balls were cut off!”

They call me a drunk idiot and we get the hell home. Keep on living, and such. Reload the alcohol cabinet and the boys keep comparing dick sizes until I pick one of them. Sex and livestock: The foundation of an adventure. It’s always the same story with these types.

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