Down and Out(3)

Shock glues my feet in place as my mouth hangs open. His blue eyes sparkle in the glittery stage lights as they remain locked on me, his lips slightly parted. I’m about to turn away and head back the way I came when he comes. His features twist in pleasure as his fingers knot in her hair, almost painfully, it seems.
His eyes never leave mine.
Oh, God, he’s getting off on me watching.
My stomach roils. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
How did I end up here? Where did I go wrong in life to end up in this exact moment? Better yet, where am I going to end up if things don’t change?
Then it just clicks.
I don’t belong here. I’m . . . I’m better than this. I never thought little ol’ me, the girl who’d gotten dealt a shit hand in life, would ever be too good for anything, but in this instance, it’s true.
I’m too good to end up working on my knees or my back, and I’ll be damned if I end up a coked-up stripper blowing some yuppie * for a hundred bucks. My dignity is worth more than that. I’m worth more than that.
In a moment of absolute clarity, I turn and walk in the other direction. Back through the changing area I go, through the main floor, to the lobby, where I walk out the front doors because I straight-up don’t give a shit anymore. I’m never coming back here—not to this club or this girl I’ve become.






“Come on.”
I absently wonder if Jamie’s lips have any feeling left in them as they brush my ear. There’s so much collagen in them, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re dead to sensation. They look good, though—all full and pouty—and they feel good enough when they’re wrapped around my cock.
A little firm, but hey, I’m not nitpicky when it comes to blowjobs. As long as they don’t use too much teeth, I’m good.
“Dance with me,” she says. The din of the house party she’s dragged me to is raging all around us. I probably wouldn’t even be able to hear her if she wasn’t straddling my lap on the couch, in a very unladylike manner.
I look past her, at nothing in particular, as I watch people dance in the crowded living room. “You know I don’t dance.”
Her nails scratch my scalp as she runs her fingers through my hair. It makes my already furrowed brows inch closer together. Why do I let her do that? I hate that.
“All right,” she murmurs, trying too hard to sound breathy and sexy. “Then let’s go someplace quiet and talk.”
I snort and take another swig of my beer. Jamie and I don’t talk, not unless it’s grunting stuff like “faster,” “harder,” or “deeper.”
“It’ll be kinda hard to talk with my dick in your mouth, won’t it?”
A normal girl would’ve taken offense, but Jamie just rolls her eyes and gets this look on her face like, “Boys will be boys.” It’s both why this is and isn’t working.
She leans forward, grinding her crotch against mine. “Come on, baby, it’ll be fun.”
Fun. It stopped being fun with her a while ago. She’s starting to get clingy—always wanting to know where I am and who I’m with. It’s getting really old really fast, because it’s none of her business. I’m not her boyfriend, and she damn sure isn’t my girlfriend. “Was it fun with Jesse the other night?”
Pulling back, she smiles. “Aw, baby, are you jealous?”
Laughter bursts out of me and her smile dies. “No. You can blow whoever you want.”
We’re f*ck buddies and that’s all we’ll ever be, because Jamie’s a big bag o’crazy and not exactly girlfriend material. Not that I’m looking for one, or even know what girlfriend material is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not someone who’s a manipulative, vindictive, attention-whore.
That blowjob she gave my friend Jesse the other night? Not done out of the goodness of her heart, like all blowies should be. She did it because she knew it’d get back to me. It’s her sick way of trying to make me jealous.
Like I said, not girlfriend material.
And I’m fairly certain a big part of why she’s even hooking up with me to begin with is to get back at her big-shot criminal defense attorney father, who wouldn’t take too kindly to an underground fighter covered in tats banging his little girl, but I digress. . .
I’m not a bad guy. Really, I’m not. Sure, I sleep around, but it’s not because I’m some poor, tortured soul who tries to fill the emptiness in his life with a revolving door of anonymous women.
Don’t get me wrong, I do have a revolving door of anonymous women, but not for reasons that complicated. It’s actually quite simple: I sleep around because I can. Because I’m an attractive guy and there are always girls willing to hop into bed with me, with no promises of the future past a night of great sex.
There’s really no mystery to men, and I’m no exception. I’m just a simple, straightforward guy.
Jamie leans into me again, whispering things in my ear so dirty it’d make a porn star blush. Her enormous fake titties are staring me in the face, but there’s something seriously wrong with this picture, folks, because I’m softer than a ninety-year-old man on his deathbed.
Now why is this? Is it because I’m drunk? Maybe. Although “shitfaced” is probably a more accurate word at this point. But that’s never stopped me before. I once f*cked Becky Donovan three times in the backseat of her daddy’s Cadillac after downing a fifth of Jack. Not once that night did I come down with a case of whiskey dick, so . . . what the hell? Why am I not into this? I mean, I know Jamie’s personality might be akin to an ax wound, but her body’s bangin’ so I can usually look past it. Tonight, though, it’s just not working.