Do As I Say, Not As I Do

thenoobyorker:

Hosni Mubarak sentenced to life term in prison for ordering the killing of protestors.

Yes

Martini glass: gin and juice. Coffee mug: mate. Add breakfast. Good idea, or BEST idea?

Breaking: I’m being told that Syria is blocking Facebook, Twitter, Youtube and other social networks.

Goddamnit. Fuck the Syrian government. Really.

(Source: occupyallstreets)

Don’t Call Me (2nd Draft)

Muttering profanities as I do so, I gingerly rub off the marijuana tar, coffee stains, Skittle pieces and puce nail polish from the floor where Ayla’s dresser once rested. “Fucking cunt, had to fucking go and fucking do it,” I say, teeth gritted and nails besmirched by detritus. Finally, the floor is clean. Getting up, I look at what used to be our, my bedroom and fail in my attempt to count the holes from vinyl records once hung. I close my eyes and remember when the Velvet Underground, Wayne Coyne, Eminem, mewithoutyou, Gang of Four and countless ironic odes to the only friends I had in Junior High plastered the walls. Andres Serrano, Blake Nelson Boyd, Andy Warhol, and men whom Ayla considered her friends had gradually replaced them, leaving when she did for the fourth and final time. I check my phone for a millionth time and see that it is 4:37 p.m. Ayla will be here in 21 minutes so I decide to jump in the shower. She was never late, in fact, she was always 2 minutes early and I could rely on that much. I contemplate our phone conversation the previous night as the hot water rushes over me and I struggle to clean my nails, unable to, in spite of myself.

“Gavin, we need to talk,” she’d crooned into the phone. “I’ll be over at 5:00 in the evening,” she said, stretching every syllable to its’ breaking point, a sexy caricature of herself.

“If you say so,” I chirped, hoping she’d catch the bitter twinge in my voice, “you know I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Great love, I’ll see you then!”

“Don’t call me—“ I faltered as she clicked off. I wanted to fuck the presumption from her voice to call me that after inviting herself over.

It’s 4:45 when I step out of the shower, drying off and pulling on my jeans and a crewneck sweater, the v-necks Ayla bought me languishing in our, my apartment complex dumpster. Walking into the kitchen, I grab a tumbler from the shelf and pour myself some Laphroaig and lighting a cigarette. The smoky, oaky flavors chase away concern over the impending arrival of the Fifth Horsewoman of the Apocalypse: my ex-girlfriend Ayla. I cross my legs as I lean against the counter and wait for her, smoke curling around my toes.

The first time Ayla left me was the day after my 21^st birthday party. Some of her friends threw me a surprise rager at the House of Desolation, a large artist’s space where we liked to get together for parties, raves, and drug-fueled mania. I woke up the next day alone in our bed, my zombie body groaning in protest as I stumbled to the kitchen for some coffee. It was just as I was finishing my second cup of coffee and starting to grill some eggs that Ayla burst through the door, her ferocious demeanor giving me chills.

“I know what you did,” she growled, “come her. Now.”

“Babe, what’s going on? You’re acting weird,” I replied, aware enough at this point to sense the threat in her presence.

“Weird, huh? You know what’s weird? This phone call I got from Mel this morning on my way to work. That’s what’s weird,” she said, stepping closer and causing me to back away from the eggs.

“What’s so weird babe, Mel calls you all the time,” I say, proud to make the connection that Ayla and Mel are best friends.

“She told me about what happened last night. She told me about what you two did,” Ayla crows, jutting her jaw forward like she always does when she’s upset.

“What did she say we did, love? I’m really not following,” I brave, worried, but unsure why.

“Don’t play dumb with me, don’t you fucking dare. She told me about how when you walked her to her car you put your tongue in her mouth, about how you guys made out in her front seat,” she barked as she walked toward me. “She told me that you guys fucked in the backseat, and that she was too drunk to say no, but called me because she’s sorry,” she said, starting to sob. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe that you cheated on me. Well good for you. I’m so done. I’m just. Done.”

“Ayla, she’s lying,” I cried as I reached out to her, heart aching because it was all so bad, and all so untrue. “Baby, I would never do that. Please listen to me, I didn’t do any of that, I love you,” I implored, putting my hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” she exclaimed, pushing me away from her. I stepped toward her again and she lashed out, decking me in the eye as she kicked and punched scratched and bit. A coppery smell and red streaks on her hands gave her pause when blood gushed from my nose, thorns of pain piercing my scratched neck.

“What’s wrong with you,” I gasped, fearing to set her off again, because I knew I couldn’t hit her back. It just wasn’t in me.

“You’re not going to tell me the truth are you?” she snapped, turning toward the door.

“I already told you the truth babe, Mel is full of shit. I didn’t even talk to her last night, let alone walk her to her car and fuck her in the backseat. Anyone will vouch for me, I didn’t touch her,” I gurgled, snot mixing with blood as I started to cry at the cluster fuck I was sitting in.

“I don’t believe you. Mel is my best friend. We’ve been together for 8 years and she’d never lie to me. Not about this. I wish you’d be honest with me, but I guess you can’t. I’m breaking up with you now. Goodbye,” she primly stated in her matter-of-fact voice, walking out with her matter-of-fact stride.

Ayla came back about three days later to pack her stuff, and I pleaded and begged her to at least consider the possibility that I hadn’t cheated on her at my party. It didn’t matter what I said, or that she was the only girl I’d get down on my knees for. She said nothing as she loaded her car, most of the contents of our apartment emptied, regardless of who had paid for it. She’d picked it all out, so it belonged to her.

Two weeks later Ayla came over for a “sense of resolution,” as she’d phrased it when she called me, asking if we could talk. When I opened the door, she grabbed my hand and led me to the bedroom, taking both our clothes off for us. “Don’t,” she whispered when I tried to kiss her. We had sex silently, and without kissing, both coming at the same time. She started crying when I lit a cigarette after and quipped “is that supposed to be our ‘sense of resolution?”

“I don’t know why I did that, I just felt my energies telling me to,” she whimpered, running her fingers through my hair as she sat up beside me. Ayla knows a lot about energy, so I tend to defer to her on these issues.

“So what, are we like back together now, or was this just a one-time thing? Or are we just going to be exes with benefits?” I asked, attempting to add levity to the situation. Her whining was beginning to make me anxious.

“Why do you always have to see things in black and white terms? Can’t we just have what we have? Do we have to put a label on things?” she said, standing up and fastening her bra.

“Because we either are or we aren’t Ayla. Either we’re together or we aren’t. It’s that simple. I don’t have to put a label on it, but we’re either in something like a relationship or we’re not. I mean, did that mean something to you, or was it just fucking?” I buried my head in the pillow, smelling the tangy scent of sex and her flowery hair.

“I’ve gotta go Gav,” she let out as she shimmied into her pants and out the bedroom door. I heard her shut the door to the apartment as I lay there, head still buried in the pillow. I fell asleep like that, naked and covered in a sense of resolution.

The next morning I woke and saw that Ayla had emailed me. I sifted through the contents, struggling to make sense of it all. Key phrases included “need a break,” “flight,” “sorry,” “lack of trust,” “couple months,” “today,” and “Germany.” And so Ayla left me the second time, packing up and heading to friends in Germany who were better companions than I.

About two months later, I came home from work and saw the lights were on in my apartment as I approached the door. Struggling with apprehension and hope, I entered and was greeted by the musk of asparagus cooking in wine and butter; it was the only dish Ayla knew how to make. “Gav, baby is that you? I let myself in, hope that’s alright. I’ve missed you so much dear,” she cooed as she stepped out of the kitchen and walked over to kiss me. She smelled of vanilla and lust, her tall figure hitting my like a ton of bricks as she collided with me. I couldn’t resist kissing her back with fear and need. It was like kissing for the first time again, if you could kiss someone and know how it would be like before it happened. “How was your trip?” I asked, by which I really meant: what are you doing here, who did you fuck while you were in Europe, why are you acting like everything is okay, don’t you know that I’ll never forgive you for believing that sycophant Mel, and why can’t I just tell you this shit to your face?

“Germany was incredible! I saw a lot of old friends, and made some awesome new ones. I can’t wait to go again sometime,” she matter-of-factly said, and that was the end of our discussion.

She made asparagus every night, and we drank wine and made love every night for the next month. Her stuff gradually moved back into the apartment, and she gradually moved back into my heart, her vanilla coated presence saturating everything. After about a month and half, I texted her from work: “How was your day love?” I thumbed.

“Don’t call me that,” I received.

“Umm okay, what’s up? Are you mad at me or something?”

“I’m seeing someone.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You spend like almost every night with me. I’m confused. I thought we were back together.”

“Well last Friday night, when I didn’t come over, I was with him. He just makes me feel so much more positive than you. We’ve been going on for a while now, and I just want to be faithful, ya know?”

“Wow, okay then. I really hope he makes you happy,” I sent, realizing too late that sarcasm doesn’t drip through phone screens.

“I’m glad you’re being so good about this. I already moved my stuff out, except the dresser and the art. You deserve to keep it. He’s leaving in a few months to play professional soccer in the Netherlands, so I don’t know how long it will last. I hope you’ll be there for me as a friend at least when he’s gone. I understand if you don’t want to try again romantically then,” she responded, and I imagined her magnanimous grin as she typed this.

“Don’t count on anything,” I finally sent, which was met with nothing. We were through, I figured, and I started to taste that elusive sense of resolution that stuffing my face with Ayla’s asparagus had failed to give me. It was salty.

After Ayla left me for the third time, a veritable parade of women stalked through my apartment. Any girl who’d come home with me was welcome; I just didn’t want to be alone at night. It was a point where I’d have fucked anyone if they would stay the night. Eventually, I wound up in a non-relationship with a 30-something named Joelle. Joelle had two master’s degrees, a boyfriend, a 6-year old son, and an estranged husband already. I was just the icing on the cake for her. Which was fine, because if I couldn’t hurt her, then she couldn’t hurt me.

Joelle was curled up next to me, completely sated and slumbering like an overindulged house cat when I couldn’t handle looking at the Rothko lithograph Ayla had given me for Valentine’s Day any longer. Laying next to Joelle, I was happy, almost too happy. I missed Ayla badly, and figured I deserved her more than anything right then and there. I reached for my cell phone, and typed in her email address, which I had memorized, her phone number mercifully not there. The email was short and non-threatening, discussing concepts like “friendship” and “hanging out sometime soon.” Sure that I’d satisfied my need to reach out, and hopeful that nothing would come of it, I set the phone aside, turned over, and spooned Joelle, nuzzling her neck. This woman was quickly becoming someone I loved, free of attachment or the pressure to commit. I fell fast asleep and felt more secure than I had in a long time.

I awoke the next morning to the imprint of Joelle’s body and the earthy smell of fresh ground coffee wafting through the air, Jay-Z’s “Reasonable Doubt” album pulsing through my speakers as Joelle came into the bedroom, tiny ass moving to the music as she brought me a cup of coffee. “I would have made you breakfast, but I don’t really know how,” she purred.

“It’s okay babe, I don’t really eat breakfast,” I yawned, shrugging sleep from my body.

“We need to talk,” she said, “and you’re not gonna like what I’m saying.”

“What is it? It can’t be that bad,” I said, loving this woman, in spite of myself.

“Gavin, I’m in love with you. I feel really strongly toward you, and the attraction is incredible. But I can’t get attached to you. I’ve already got a boyfriend and my son loves him. Halston needs a father-figure, you know,” she falteringly said.

“I know, I know. We’ve already had this talk. What we have can’t be serious, because I’m just too young to father your child,” I defensively responded, putting my hand on her arm to calm her down. “I love you too though, and I’m fine with just keeping things like this. I’m fine if we just eat food, watch movies, and have sex late at night in secret.”

“This is why we have to stop Gav, because if we both know that we love each other that won’t be enough. It’s not for me at least. I want to be with you, but I can’t. I have a child, and have to think of him first. You’re so young, and so beautiful; you need to be with someone your age. You shouldn’t have to be a dad so young, especially if it’s not your responsibility. It’s not that I think you wouldn’t do a good job, I mean, I fell in love with you for a reason. I just think it’s wrong for me to introduce all my issues into your life. You’re still young enough to have a chance to be happy. I’m not. I’m not happy Gavin, and it’s my fault because I fucked myself over and settled for less than I should have. Halston is the best thing that happened to me, but he’d be the worst thing that would happen to you. You can’t understand right now because you’re too young, but you will. I’m sorry love, but we can’t do this anymore,” she bawled, tears drenching my collar as she cried into my neck.

“I want so badly to argue with you, I want so badly to make you let me help you raise Halston, and to be your lover, but I know you’re right. I’m too young for that, and it’d be wrong of you to ask that of me. Thanks for caring enough about me to cut this off.” I said as I pulled back, “I’ll walk you to your car babe. Give you one last goodbye.”

“Gav, one last thing,” she whispered in my ear as I hugged her the last time, “I meant what I said. Please find someone to love, someone who can love you too. I know that you were hurt before me, and I know I’ve helped you heal, but find someone. Please? If you love me, make sure she’s not like your last heartbreak.”

“I will Joelle, I promise,” I said, kissing her.

After walking Joelle to her car, I checked the time on my phone and noticed a text message from Ayla. “Can I come over? Now?” the screen ominously spoke out.

Like a dog coming back to lick up its vomit, I could not resist responding to Ayla’s text message. I figured that Joelle was right, I deserved a chance to be happy. Maybe I could make it work with Ayla, maybe this time she wouldn’t leave. See the thing about Ayla was that I figured she was my kismet destiny; I’d spent years before her fucking and fucking over plenty of women, and figured that for once, I deserved to have my heart broken, that if I could just learn to be a better man then maybe I would deserve her. The more she pulled away, the harder I fought to win her back, thinking that by finally getting to keep her I was making up for all the women I’d let go. So I texted her back, fingers trembling as I typed, “I want to see you. Lunch?”

Ayla came over that afternoon and we went out for coffee, talking about nothing in particular, laughing at each other’s romantic foibles since we had last seen each other after the subject finally came up. She told me that the soccer star had turned out to be a total asshole, and they’d lasted barely a month. There’d been a few guys after him, but none she’d even considered worth her time. I lied and said there’d only been a few girls, none of them serious when she asked if I’d been seeing anyone, trying not to think about Joelle’s warning. We ended up screwing on the floor in the kitchen while I was making us friendship casserole. I asked her to be with me again, for good this time, and she agreed. I helped her move her stuff back into the apartment three days after we’d tarnished the linoleum and things went back to the way they’d always been. Sometimes we’d fight over what brand of jelly to buy, but mostly it was pleasant. We did everything together: shopping, exercising, cooking, showering, laundry, etc and were almost never able to do anything without having sex before, during, and after. It was like being newlyweds without the rings.

After about four months of passionate cohabitation, Ayla started to grow morose. She became easily irritated, always complained of being tired, and started fights with me. I’m not one to back down, and readily engaged with her, our fights sometimes lasting hours and always ending in tears and usually with make-up sex. Gradually though, our fights began to end with her driving off to Lord knows what bar or club, coming home wasted, clothes ruined by smoke, makeup besmirched and mysterious smells on her skin. She always apologized tearfully, asking me to forgive her for treating me unfairly. I always forgave her, helping her out of her clothes and into the shower, never asking where she’d been.

It all came to a head one night as we were watching A Very Long Engagement, our favorite movie. “Gavin, would you spend years looking for me if I ever disappeared?” she spoke into my ear as we cuddled.

“Well of course love, I mean, obviously I can’t seem to give up on you,” I softly chided her, reminding her of how silly such questions were. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No, I don’t think I would Gav. That’s the problem with our relationship. I don’t love you as much as you love me. And I treat you like shit, and you just, you just take it. I can’t respect you because you always take me back. I mean, I’m ashamed to even let you meet my friends or family because I secretly think you’re hopeless. And I’m scared other people will see it too, and judge me for being with someone who’s…well someone who’s my bitch,” she ventured, clearly testing the depths of my love.

“Ayla, I love you, but I’m nobody’s bitch. And if you don’t respect me or love me enough then why don’t you just end it?” I dared her.

“But I don’t want to end things. I just don’t see how they could keep going,” she ambivalently replied. “I mean, it’s all just so fucked up. We keep seeing each other and it’s not working out. We’re never going to stay together for good and never going to stop starting up again if we keep going like this.”

“So then what, do you want me to end it then? If you can’t?” I bitterly said, biting off the words as I said them. “You don’t want to be the bad guy again, since you’ve always been the one to break it off?”

“Yes, that’s pretty much it. Gav, I’m sorry, I can see you’re hurting still, but being with you hurts me. I just feel like you’re suffocating me, you love me so much. And I can never trust you. I’ll never know for sure what happened with Mel,” she stroked my face as she said this, almost making me believe she cared.

“Okay that’s it. We’re fucking done. I’m so over this. I keep trying, and you really just don’t give a shit. Have fun with your energy or whatever,” I said, moving her toward the door. I needed to get her outside, I needed a cigarette, I needed to get her away.

“Gav wait, I still want to see you. I just can’t be in a relationship with you. It’s toxic for me. I love you though, and want to have some connection with you,” she cried out.

“So what, you come over, we talk and then fuck every now and again? Is that it, is that what you want?” I queried. “You wanted to be in a relationship again, remember? No one forced you into this.”

“What choice did I have? If that was the only way I could see you. I need you on some level. I just can’t be with you in the way you want. I think we probably should just fuck. It seems to work best for us,” she said, objectifying me with each word.

“I think you should go. And I don’t think we should talk. Or fuck. Or anything at all, ever again,” I pointed to the door, “I’m sorry Ayla, but I am done demeaning myself to earn your favor. I’m tired of being a whiny fucker, who can’t move on. You’re right, I just take your shit, and you don’t respect me. How could you? I sure as hell don’t respect myself. You prance in and out my life like it’s a goddamn Vaudeville act, and you’re the star. I’m just your fucking prop. I used to be fine with that, because at least I was getting used. I don’t want to be used anymore, I don’t want to hear myself speak to you and think ‘Gee Gav, you sound like a Nicholas Sparks book right about now.’ There is no happy ending with you because there is no motherfucking ending. Well I’m ending it. It’s over,” I huffed, shutting the door on her.

When I awoke the next morning to an empty bed, I felt relieved. It was finally over, and I knew that it would be hard being alone at night, but things would work out. I was finally free, and could work on building a life where I didn’t eat asparagus.

After breakfast, I quickly removed every last trace of my ex, save for the dresser I’d bought her. She’d pretty much trashed it, but it was handmade and I figured I could sell it on Craigslist. I left all of Ayla’s stuff on the porch of my apartment, hoping someone would steal her shitty modernist lithographs. When I came home from work that evening, her stuff was all gone, her key to the apartment slipped through the mail slot. I didn’t even know where she’d be staying, but figured she would probably be fine. Ayla always had a backup plan. Once, it had been me.

It was about two weeks after leaving for good that Ayla called. I spent all night wondering what the fuck she wanted to talk about. Maybe she’d seen the dresser on Craigslist and wanted to buy it, or more likely, wanted to have it. Too bad, I mused, because it had already been sold the other day. Thinking about her till the sun came up, dwelling on all the pieces she’d left me in, made me feel unclean and itchy. I had to shower three times when I woke up just to feel presentable. My day off was spent cleaning my apartment, erasing all traces she’d left behind. The blue hair extensions behind the couch, lipstick in the spice cabinet, glitter in top of the fridge, scrapbooking stains in the guest room, and the residue of her dresser were all rubbed away, the last of her marijuana smoked as I scoured the apartment. Everything she’d ever bought me, most of it designed to improve my “image,” went into the trash. If I had to see another Ed Hardy belt, or shield sunglass it would be too soon.

At precisely 4:58 in the evening, Ayla shyly knocked on the door. She always knocked, never rang. I opened the door, not moving aside to let her in.

“You said we need to talk Ayla. So talk. There isn’t anything you can’t tell me from right there,” I said firmly.

“You’re really not going to let me in are you Gav?” she timorously asked.

I shook my head “no, not this time. You’ve lost that chance.”

“Okay then. Well, I guess I should tell you, I just have the worst luck. You’ll never guess what happened,” she cryptically responded.

“You’re right, I won’t. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on. What’s so important that you had to come over?”

“Well for starters, my car was broken into the other night! They smashed the window and everything.”

“That’s really unfortunate, but I’m not sure how this relates to me. Did they take anything valuable or something?” I was struggling to give a shit.

“No, they didn’t take anything thankfully, it’s just kinda shitty is all. About us, I got test results from Planned Parenthood yesterday.”

“What kind of results?” I said, very on edge and definitely interested now.

“They were positive ones.”

“What kind of positive? Shit, you’re not pregnant are you?”

“No, nothing that bad. They only said I have an STD, no big deal.”

“No big deal! What the fuck, Ayla what is it?”

“I’ve got Chlamydia. I don’t think you gave it to me, but you should probably get tested. Just thought you should know,” she said, eyes growing wide at my darkening features. “What’s wrong Gav, aren’t you glad I told you? I didn’t have to you know. Don’t be mad love, we can work this out. Things will be alright, I swear. What’s that you said? You’re mumbling.”

“Oh nothing, I was just saying that I’m still young enough to be happy.”

Llelo

“Come on Shane, don’t be such a fucking square. It’s real easy. All ya gotta do is show up at the club at 8:30 tomorrow night. Esperanza says her friend Alice will meet you there. Just give me the money now and I’ll take care of all the details. We’ll have an awesome night,” James said, as we stood outside our charges door, earpieces chirping and hands ready for violence. Both of us were ex-military, though formality forbade us to speak much of it. “Being a Secret Service agent is lonely work man, and that bitch Ellen didn’t really leave you with many options for company. What’s he do again, man? Lawyer or something?”

“He’s a financial consultant. ‘Makes money off of investing other people’s money,’ is how she put it. I don’t think it really matters; he was there and I wasn’t,” I glumly said. James has a talent for reminding me how much I feel like shit.

“What’s his name again? Larry or something like that?” he said, egging me on.

“I’ve already told you, it’s Darrell. Motherfucking Darrell,” I snapped. “Can we talk about something else? Or nothing? I mean, we’re in Colombia to do our fucking jobs.”

“Our jobs? Gimme a break. I could do this babysitting shit with my eyes closed. You’re avoiding the conversation at hand though. Ellen left you, and you need to get fucking laid. Rebound sex that bitch right out of your system,” James smirked. For a UPenn grad with lawyers for parents, my Afro-American partner is surprisingly uncouth.

 “I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth. Anyhow, I’ll do it. How much do you need?” I said, Glock digging into my side as I fished for my wallet.

“$400 each is what my girl tells me. Her friend’s name is Alice and she’s the best. The best ain’t cheap.”

“$400? For fucks sakes James! She better be the best.”

“Shane dawg, when have I ever steered you wrong?”

I peeled off some $20 bills from my money clip and slipped them in his jacket pocket. “Tell her to bring the good stuff. Something un-fucking-forgettable.”

 Cartagena was once the capital of the Carthaginian Empire, a city and culture so amoral and decadent they shocked even the Romans. It was a place where the rich power elite fought for the privilege of having their children slaughtered on the altars of fearsome god Moloch. They developed an extremely complex social structure around these child sacrifices. A lottery of sorts would be held, with the family chosen giving up their most attractive offspring as an offering. The chosen children would be burned alive, placed inside a metal statue that was heated from below. It was thought that their screams brought the favor of their god, for he was a sick fucker. Families lucky enough to give up their children would see their economic and social fortunes rise, with the selection process often being rigged as the Carthaginian Empire reached its apex. Located on the coast of what is now Morocco, this city once controlled the known world. I’m in a different sort of Cartagena though today, where human sacrifice has given way to other perversions. One where the most attractive children are offered up to appease a different sort of fearsome god.

“What brings you to Cartagena, cañon?” purred the woman who’d slinked up beside me at the bar. I gave her a once over. Approximately 5’7” minus the heels, 32C cup size, probably 110 pounds at most, black miniskirt with revealing black top, mulatto complexion, over-dyed hair, overdone makeup, and killer pearly whites. All in all, I’d give her about a 7.5, maybe more if she could dance. She’d do for tonight.

“I’m here for business. You must be Alice,” I replied, casually leaning against the bar, considering how her blonde hair would look draped across Ellen’s ottoman. “What are you drinking?”

“I’ll have a reposado. Gran Centenario, if you have it,” she demurely told the bartender. Sidling closer to me she asked, “what are you drinking?”

 “Cabo Uno,” I said, letting her close the proximity between us. She was good at this. James had picked well; he knew what I liked: down, and looks it. I wondered where she grew up, what kind of family she’d had, what kind of family would let their daughter ply herself at bars. Ellen had plied herself at bars too. It’s how we met. It’s how they met.

“So what kind of business are you here for? Most come here for el llelo. Or the girls,” she proclaimed, as if it were the most natural occurrence. Which it was.

“I work for the government,” I replied as casually as possible. This girl was quickly becoming an 8 or 9, the more she spoke, her voice reminding me of a seedy telenovela. She was intoxicatingly seductive, and I figured it was her bewitching azure eyes, which reminded me of something important, but too important to remember.

“Are you a spy, churro? I’ve always wanted to meet a spy.”

“Something like that, but not nearly as exciting as the movies. Ah, here comes James,” I responded, glad to see my partner walking in with his date. I think it was Esperanza, or something extremely colombiana. American tourists go crazy for that whole cultural experience shit. We can feel like gods in this country, with the most attractive natives offering themselves for mere pennies like chattel on our altars. James doesn’t really care one way or the other, as long as he gets shitfaced and laid. The depravity of abusing our first-world status to garner sex eludes him, or at least, doesn’t concern him.

“Shane, you fucking bastard, you started la fiesta sin yo,” said James. No matter what country we visit, my partner always loves to show off his linguistic abilities, clinging to the local patois like a life preserver. It doesn’t even matter if the girls are a sure-thing, he has to prove he’s orally proficient.

“Well, you just took so fucking long James, and you know I can’t go dancing without drinking first.” I was hoping he wouldn’t tell the girls what we were doing here. We’re not supposed to tell foreign nationals our occupation.

“This is true. My man Shane here, he’s a total square without a drink. Give him a couple shots of anejo though and he’ll do the merengue on stage, while wearing a fucking sombrero. My brotha knows how to get down” James said, lasciviously licking his lips. The girls giggled, probably more embarrassed for him than actually amused.

“Alright, James callate. It’s time to show these ladies how two off-duty governmental drones can drink,” I declared raising my fourth shot glass to him.

“Amen to that mi compañero. Salud.” James clinked glasses with me and I lit a cigarette, white filter paper, white line on my left index finger, smoke mixing with alcohol and creating a mezcla of inhibition.

It’s 3:30 am when my partner and I stumble out of El Club Ligueros, arm candy in tow. We went our separate ways without saying goodbye, all drunk and eager for bed. I felt like a superstar, champion of the shot glass, my horny, foreign companion a worthy trophy for my godlike presence. Alice tottered on her stilettos toward the rental car. We hopped in, and I drove us toward the hotel, with my hand creeping up her inner thigh the whole way. Through the cracked window I could almost taste the sickly sweet odor composed of orchids, bananas, and coca plants that wafted through the air. It smelled of sex and crime, intertwined in the embrace of two cumbia dancers gyrating on the dance floor, leading each other ever on in a headlong rush toward unfeeling. Alice pulled out a flask with mescal and passed it to me. She’d been sneaking me sips all night, and the stuff was strong enough to inebriate a bull. “Want some llelo with that?” she asked, pushing a bag of white stuff into my hand. Salting my hand with precious powder I inhaled, chasing it down with tangy mescal. I could hear my heartbeat, or something like my heartbeat, pounding against the back of my eyelids, as everything became a rush of color, sound, touch, synesthesia enwrapping me as Alice’s talented fingers moved down my side from my neck to my thigh, then inward, toward the Sears Tower in my pants. The city flashed by, a horny mess of rickshaws, bordellos, bodegas, and cobblestone streets well worn by bare feet. By the time I pulled up to the hotel, a spider-infested shithole that I afforded on my ridiculous governmental salary, Alice had finished me off, and with a little more coke I was ready to go again. We stumbled into my room, crossfaded and clumsily taking each other’s clothes off, two sexy clods, as in love with our own bodies as each other’s. Given the size of the room, we had no trouble finding the bed in the dark, and a lot of trouble finding our way out of our clothing and into each other’s embrace.

I awoke to the sound of fellow agents knocking at my door. I don’t remember if I came, I think she did, but she was a professional so I don’t think I could tell, certainly not with the aid of the stuff she gave me. It felt worth $400 this morning though, knowing I could easily spend that much on a night with Ellen back home. Or at least, I used to be able too. Somewhere along the way I was gone too long and she forgot all about me. Or maybe I forgot about her, and this was how I remembered her.

Today, Cartagena is a city in Colombia where anything or anyone can be bought, and this morning I’m out of money, having bought a night’s worth of forgetfulness and the incessant knocking at my door, beating in tandem to the pounding in my skull. A little cultural exchange is to be expected of American tourists, but unfortunately it’s reprehensible when you’re in my profession. I don’t think that I’ll answer that door. I’d rather sleep, the fearsome god Mescal and his paramour Llelo, sated through the sanctification of hangover. My phone chirps, the Velvet Underground’s “Pale Blue Eyes” alerting me that my ex-wife, Ellen is calling.

Another morning waking at 4am, covered in sweat, shaking, another nightmare where you torment me. I hate you. I love you. I want you to just go away or for me to just go away, fade into the vast obscurity of the lonely, brokenhearted. I’m so tired, and so hurt and lonely. If you were here it wouldn’t help; you mostly only ever made me feel like shit. I want to go back to the time where I wasn’t afraid to fall asleep alone at night. I’ll fuck anyone if they will spend the night, so that I won’t have to sleep alone, so that I won’t be vulnerable to thoughts about you. Most of the time, I make it through my day just fine, or even more than fine; occasionally, I am rather happy. When I am alone at night though and asleep, I can’t stop the thoughts of you from finding me —helpless and hopeless.

This is utter bullshit, and I should be over you. It wasn’t that great was it? I mean, I loved you, but that’s so meaningless and doesn’t help me at all. I pray to God every night to take this away from me, to help me help myself to just get over you and move along, but I think God must be a fucking asshole because I can’t seem to put this darkness from me. Why the fuck am I even writing this?

You thought my blog was silly, unimportant, and never bothered reading it anyway.

I usually try to flip off every Hummer I see driving by. There’s just no way you can be a good person and drive one of those. I’m still waiting for a man in a snap-back to get out one of these days and throw his G-Shock watch at me.