Selina quickly checked herself in the bathroom mirror one last time. She'd been looking forward to tonight's job and her preparations had been meticulous. She smoothed down her knee-length black dress that clung to her, showing off her shapely body to full effect. The low cut neck-line showed off her décolletage, with just a hint of the lacy black basque she was wearing below it. Sheer black stockings and stilettos completed her outfit.
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I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.
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The truth is, I want to be hurt.
The red plastic cup of beer in my hand is damp and sweating. The bass is pounding so loudly I can feel it vibrating inside my veins. My shirt is sticking to my skin along my spine, my skin tired and dewy and angry. God, I hate my life.
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So it was New Years eve, the time to party, to celebrate, and with any bit of luck, get laid. And in the past I've had absolutely no problems getting laid on New Years Eve. Sometimes it was because I was lucky, others it was because I lowered my standards, or alcohol lowered them and I got laid. In either case my main goal of having sex has been accomplished on NYE since I turned 18, and I'm now 29. So I guess I am at least guaranteed to get laid once a year.
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Hot morning sun blistering one side of my cheek, along with the sound of a shrieking bird outside my window as I lay on my bed woke me up. I scrambled to the floor, forgetting for the moment, in my sleepy state, that it was Sunday and I didn't have to go to work. Looking at the clock on the bedside table I saw that it was eight thirty. I felt like going back to bed but habit got the better of me. Growing up, I had heard my late dad on numerous occasions speak on the virtues of early rising, claiming that persons who liked to sleep late got nowhere in life. I usually got up at around 5:45 to 6:00 am to start preparing for work.
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My back was killing me by two o'clock. At eighteen I'm in good shape but, Damn!
My sister has a lot of crap!
Some how it's become my job to move it all.
My dad would help, but at sixty his back doesn't need the strain. And he's working on the family barbecue grill.
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It was going to be a long weekend. With Monday as a gazetted public holiday I had three days in which to do nothing, and that's what I intended to do. I was going to just relax, bum around the house, maybe work on the car and maybe play on the internet.
I was completely unsuspicious when my mother asked if I had anything planned for the weekend.
"Nope," I said happily. "Just one long bludge."
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Elijah
I'd been going to hardcore punk shows since I started university three years ago.
There were two totally different hardcore scenes in my city -- the river divided the bright shopping centres from the seedy industrial complexes and there was a distinct culture for each side of the bridge.
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"It's only going to be a few guys over to watch the UK Basketball game." I said.
"Autumn wants to come over and she is in the mood to play." Becky whispered in my phone.
Now my libido went into overdrive. Becky had told me that Autumn had gotten some toys at a naughty wedding shower last week. My dirty mind went straight to Becky, Autumn, me and toys. But I could not tell the guys no.
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John Dorland pressed his foot down on the break, slowing the car down as he approached his usual stakeout spot and eased his navy blue unmarked police cruiser off the interstate and into a wide truck turnout, backing the rear of the Dodge Charger up under the cover of the maple trees that lined the turnout fifty yards from the edge of the asphalt. He turned off the headlights, leaving the engine idling, and flipped on the dash mounted radar, settling back into his seat for the remainder of his ten hour shift.
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