THOUSAND SHADES OF GRAY
FILLING THE VOID 1,000 WORDS AT A TIME
Drive-In by Meg Tuite

Every Friday night a throng of cars lined up at Hansen Beach in the parking lot. Someone always brought a keg. Someone always had weed. Someone always had a flask of something hot that blasted away a life in no more than a few deep swallows.

I sought the depth and strangeness of tunnels inside each mouth. I moved from car to car on weekends, each with an older boy inside it, searching for something that shoplifting and bleeding never challenged. So there I was at the beach. The waves were breaking inside my chest. I jumped into a truck with a guy who spent seven years never graduating from high school. He wore black frames as old and foreign as an atlas. He was shorter than me, but his bravado, his button down shirts, the smirk of his cologne had already pinned me to a place I had every intention of traveling to. I was already drowning and he knew it, when he put his arm around me and smiled.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

He palmed the back of my head and pulled it toward him. I was the rising action in his pants. My hand was guided to his crotch. We were grappling toward a climax. Mine was to stretch past the boundaries of my stagnant neighborhood, clutch at the borrowed yesterdays of girls with narrowed eyes, lips swollen with the vagrancy of back alleys, raw with apathy, while boys sniffed around them, waiting for some scraps to come their way. His erection was meant to conquer the uncharted territory of other dicks that might get further than his. Every guy in every steamed car was determined to get deeper than the one before him. He withdrew his tongue, looked at me with shadowed eyes and said, “Baby, I’ve always wanted you.”

I sucked down the remains of his flask. Alcohol molded my bones. They didn’t break anymore. My backbone hollowed in on itself and allowed my vertebrae to float, swimming in some boundless wreckage of a sunken ship waiting to transform the explorer who discovered it.

He unzipped his pants. He pulled it out. The beacon of the night was blazing up at me to guide my path. My mouth had never navigated this hidden terrain. Virgin lips were a high commodity. He stared into my bloodshot eyes. “I never thought you noticed me,” he said. “Are you really mine?” he asked. His pupils were full-mast as he swaggered through his script.

Myself said, “You are indomitable.” Myself said, “He will fracture without you.” Myself said, “You will swallow him whole and he will liquidate. He is the watery remains of foam against the sand. He is nothing without you.”

I lowered my head as the brain of his being raised itself up to meet me.

    1. 3 notesTimestamp: Sunday 2012/12/02 3:59:00
    1. thousandshadesofgray posted this