A Dirty Bathroom Floor

It started after a break up. I’d been with my girlfriend for three years. Too long. Too young to have been tied down like that. I was sick of romance and sweetness and boredom. I’d been sick of it for at least a third of our relationship but I was too lazy to break up with her. She dumped me. Left me for her boss at a temp job. A lawyer twenty-two years older than her. They were perfect together. Baking chickens on Sunday nights. Going to see free concerts in the park. She started wearing scarves with thin sweaters and dangly earrings.

I saw her a few months after she left me and I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked like a straight-ish version of herself. She looked at me like I was filthy. I saw the shock in her face. I probably smelled bad. I hadn’t showered in a few days and it was a hot summer. My hair would have been sticking up all over except where it was still smashed flat from the pillow. My uniform that summer was jean shorts, heavy boots, and a white v-neck. I had a new tattoo. She noticed that right away. On my neck. She frowned as she pointed her finger towards it. “Why did you do that?” she asked. “You sound like my mom,” I answered. And that was the end of that encounter.

I’d gotten the tattoo on my neck just to be ratty. I wanted to make the decision right then not to be a good girl. Ever. That seemed an easy way to do it. I was lazy about everything except fucking.

After she left me, all I wanted to do was fuck. I asked girls out all the time. I asked girls out on the subway, at the library, online, at the market. I liked meeting early for a drink. Early enough to salvage the evening if things didn’t work out. And things usually didn’t work out. No one likes desperation. Not on a date. Not like that. I realized I was doing it all wrong. I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. It was dirtier than that. Shallow.

I was out with a girl I’d fucked a couple weeks ago. She’d texted saying she was out at a bar near my place. I’d thrown on shoes, grabbed my wallet, and headed out to get laid. I liked the bar. They had bowls of pretzels which no one else seemed to touch but I always need to put something in my stomach while I drink. Plus it gives me something to do with my hands that isn’t smoking. The bar was a total dive. The kind of bar where people bring their dogs in halfway through a morning walk to have a quick drink. Enough dykes in the place to make it friendly but not an exclusively queer bar so I didn’t worry too much about running into people I didn’t want to see.

I was excited about fucking and felt pretty cocky about it. I’d already fucked this girl a few weeks ago, she texted me to come have a drink, it seemed clear we were going to fuck. I like that feeling when I’m in a bar. I like a sure thing. I ordered another old fashioned and grimaced at the sweetness. Why do I order cocktails when I always find the sweetness cloying? I drank and flirted. Looked cool. Fingered my new tattoo. Scratched the back of my neck. I wiped crumbs off my thighs.

I barely paid attention to anything going on. I drank. I drank too much. I smiled and threw looks around the room. She was talking about a friend of hers. I nodded and smiled and cooed at the right moments. We were two birds sitting on a wire. Half enjoying each other’s company and half waiting for something better to come along.

I stood up to take a piss and nearly toppled over. Too much to drink. Way too much to drink. “I’m coming with you,” she said and I grinned because I am the kind of girl who wants that quick fuck in the dive bar bathroom. Or anywhere. I will take that quick fuck in the middle of the dance floor with an arm snaked around me and a hand jammed into my jeans. I will head down the alley or into the backseat. I don’t need a cock. Fingers are best for that quick fuck. Fingers we can both feel.

She grabbed my head inside the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered and made me squint and rub my eyes. “It’s too bright in here,” I whined. She shoved me towards the sink. “Take your shirt off and pull your pants down,” she said and I tried to turn around but she grabbed my wrist. “Hey,” I said, “I’m going to fuck you,” in a poor attempt to tilt the dynamic with one sloppy, drunk sentence. She clicked her tongue and laughed. “You’re not going to touch me,” she said, “Fuck yourself.”

I jerked my head to look behind me. She backed away. I remembered how badly I had to pee, but it could wait. I lifted my shirt up over my head and hung it on the doorknob. I turned around, unbuckled my belt, and pulled my pants down. “Stop there,” she said before I reached my knees. “Get down on the floor. On your back,” she said. I didn’t even stop to look down. I dropped fast and felt the wet dirt on my ass. I kept my head lifted for a few seconds but let it fall with a relief that soaked deep inside my bones. There was piss all around me. In my hair. My fingers pulled at my clit. I had my knees bent, falling open as wide as my pulled down jeans allowed.

She crept closer to me and kicked at my boot. She walked around me with a look of minor shock on her face. I stared up at her as I jerked off. My clit felt good but sleepy. The booze slowed everything down. I felt capable of reading her mind. Her thoughts were so real inside me. She hadn’t expected me to actually do it. She’d expected a struggle, a playful tug of war with one of us ending up bent over the sink. But here I was down on the ground laying in this stink and filth with my hands between my legs. She liked the power of it. She liked how the words came out of her mouth and I obeyed. She was already on to the next time. Thinking what else she might command. “Hey,” I yelled up at her. We stared into each other’s eyes. Nothing else was said. I came with my head lifted. My muscles tight. I rolled over and stood up with the words “I’ll do it” falling out of my mouth too low for her to hear.

I pulled my shirt back over my head and felt it stick in places against my back. I pissed before pulling my jeans back up. She stood against the door with a blank look on her face. I washed my hands in cold water and wiped them on my jeans. I kissed her hard on the mouth before opening the door and tumbling back into the bar.


7 thoughts on “A Dirty Bathroom Floor”

  1. This is…


    In the most delightful way. 🙂 😀

    I admire your skill with first person storytelling here. There’s a perfect balance between detail and generality: enough of the former to sketch a clear outline, and of the latter to let my imagination fill in the blanks. Excellent writing!

  2. This made me cackle a few times. And it was also hot because of its filthiness. I mean, the part where it’s filthy and drunk “you” has no fucks to spare over it. Not having to care is hot in itself, to me. I easily take the role of the one who is actually kind of shocked and turned on by how much you allow yourself to unravel. I’ve never been able to do that.

    Anyway, you have this way of wording things that sort of bypasses the medium of words and connects very directly to imagery and experience. Like, physical experience or body memory. It’s tactile, if that makes sense. Sensual, and not because it’s smut. I mean to say it’s obviously very natural to you. You write like you spend an enormous amount of time feeling, but it’s not at all cheesy. At least not to me.

    Maybe I think all that because it speaks to me in a very direct way. So glad I found all of these stories, thank you so much for being brave enough to put all of this out here for us to find. I needed to find it right now.

  3. Also: you should start posting your writing on fetlife to break up the never-ending stream of het blowjobs and sparkly, bejewelled butt plugs (those sure are pretty though). Kinky queers need you. Queer smut avenger, save us.

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