Good afternoon, Ladies and Gents. I trust you’re all well…
Today on the blog we have a new Bleeding Heart story for you to sink your teeth into. So grab a drink, sit back, relax and read Sex: A Survival Guide by the fabulous Violet Skies.
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We love you, as ever!
Take it away Violet…
Sex: A Survival Guide
by Violet Skies.
I look ridiculous.
Mr. McFake Name needs to put down the porn and pick up a book. British school girls don’t wear plaid cut up to their assholes and Latex waistcoats that can’t contain their tits.
I shove my hand up under the cheap plastic and shuffle my chest about until my breasts at least look the same size. I’d bet next month’s rent that the Latex will leave a rash.
I hate Valentine’s Day, it always brings out the weirdoes.
“What’s taking so long? I’m not paying you to take a piss.” Five fat fingers curled into a fist thump against the door. This dude is a real prince charming.
“I’ll be out in just minute.”
He walks away, muttering something repulsive about his erection.
Before I unlock the door I check my phone to see if Gwen has sent me any Ben updates. I don’t usually worry about my boy when I’m working. I know he’s safe with Gwen, but this afternoon he had a wet cough and I can’t help but worry. Strep throat is going round his school — which reminds me, I’ve got to make fifty cakes for a bake sale on Monday. I set a reminder on my phone and make a note to pick up some stuff from the store.
I leave my phone unlocked and sit it on top of my bag. It has to be easily accessible, just in case I need it. Normally I’d have pepper spray, but Ben was whimpering at me before I left the house, I was all out of sorts and forgot to snatch it up off the counter.
Mr. McFake Name is laid on the bed, naked. Guy is as horny as fuck, but Ima need a magnifying glass to find his dick. From this distance, I’m not even sure he has one.
It doesn’t take a genius to work out that his size, or lack thereof, is the reason he pulled his car up to my street corner and offered me five hundred dollars to dress up and ride his ass over the edge tonight.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, with a grin. I swallow back the little bit of throw up that rises in my throat.
Think Johnny Depp thoughts. Think Johnny Depp thoughts.
I walk over to the side of the bed, chin to my chest, looking up at him through plastic lashes. I’m trying to channel sexy, but the cellophane wrapped around my knockers is squeaking. My head is abuzz with thoughts of my little boy, a bunch of dry cleaning that still needs to be picked up and this ugly ass blue vein that’s sprouted on my left breast.
“Well, don’t just stand there, Sweetheart. Sit on it.” He snatches hold of my wrist, gives me a yank and I fall on top of him.
I don’t like it when they’re rough.
I fling my leg over, and snatch a quick glance over my shoulder at my bag sitting by the bathroom door.
It’s possible I’ve underestimated Mr. McFake Name.
I’ve only been doing this job a couple of years, but I can usually tell which guys want to get rough and which just want to get laid. I took one look at the follically challenged Mr. McFake Name, with his pudgy exterior and ever prominent speech impediment and assumed he was just looking for some good old fashioned lovin’. He snatches the tops of my arms and forces me down. Now I’m not so sure. I curse myself for leaving my bag so far away.
“You like that?” He asks through gritted teeth.
Like what? He thinks he’s inside me but he’s barely scraping the surface.
He starts thrusting beneath me, breaks a sweat in the first ten seconds and I decide to give him ten out of ten for effort.
I lean forward, snatch hold of the bedstead. He salivates all over my neck while I make pictures out of the damp patches breeding on the motel wall.
We’re maybe five minutes in when he decides he wants me to sit back up, poker straight.
“I want you lookin’ at me when I fill you up,” he says.
Dude is wearing a rubber, but whatever. The quicker he gets off, the quicker I can get home. “You could look a little more lively for $500,” he tells me.
$500 will get me Ben’s chest meds. It’ll get my groceries, my dry cleaning and tomorrow night off. Plus, I’m kind of grateful that he hasn’t tried to shove it up my ass. I oblige, pursing my lips, squeezing my tits and making yummy noises. He bucks like a bronco between my thighs. I’m still not convinced it’s in.
My mind hasn’t been on this job. Not at all, and before long I’m back thinking about the color of mucus Ben was coughing up and whether or not I should get my blue-boob-vein checked out when bam, something smashes into my face. I see spots. I’m spitting blood and chewing on my own teeth.
“Ignorant bitch,” Mr. McFake Name declares as he throws my startled body to one side and climbs off the bed.
My brain is stuck to the back of my eyeballs. Pain radiates in my cheek, like red hot pokers stabbing at my skin. I twist my head to the side and try to blink the room back into focus.
“Dumb whore,” he growls. The fuzz clouding my vision fades away and I see him standing over me, a glass ashtray in his hand and my blood rolling off it like rain.
I just have time to clamber out of the way as he lifts the makeshift sledgehammer above his head and smacks it down on to the bed.
He’s trying to kill me.
My legs are shaking, feel limp like boiled spaghetti, but strength comes from somewhere and my foot connects with Mr. McFake Name’s jaw. I hear a crunch and he cries out.
I crawl across the covers, but it’s like treading sand. The sheets are rope winding round my legs and I’m getting nowhere fast.
I’m dead, I think, when he catches hold of my ankle. My heart is hammering in my head and dry blood is crisping on my chin. He drags me back to the edge of the bed and flips me over. He snatches my neck with one hand and forces my legs apart with the other. He’s wearing a grin from ear to ear, big enough to swallow space.
Now I can see his dick. This is the kind of shit that gets him hard. Unfortunately for him I’m not quite the dumb whore he assumes and while he tries haphazardly to navigate himself inside me, my hand is scouring the bed, looking for the glass mallet that’s now missing from his hand. My fingers find blood first, my blood. I want to yelp, curl up in a corner and cry, but that’s not an option. I grasp the ashtray, lift it high and bring it back down on the back of his head.
He expels a moan, flashes me the whites of his eyes before he collapses on top of me. I’m crushed. A rush of oxygen rattles as it leaves my lips. I roll him off, but instead of falling back on to the mattress he plops on the floor like a ten ton sack of shit.
That’s when I realize he’s dead.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Gwen says when I answer the door. No time to explain, I’m scared someone will walk by and see. I snatch her wrist and haul her boney ass through the door.
“You look like a hooker.” She exhales a mouthful of cigarette smoke.
“I am a hooker.”
“Yeah, but… you know, you don’t usually dress like one.” Her nose puckers as she stares at my waistcoat and heaving bosom. “This is a request, right? Ugh. That shit’s going to give you a rash.”
“Gwen, where’s Ben?”
“Sam’s watching him.” I exhale relief. I was worried she might have brought him with her. “Little worm’s not so sick now by the way. What did I tell you? He’s nearly eaten me out of house and home…”
“Gwen!” I snap. “I need to tell you something.”
“Geeze, Louise. Calm your ass down. What happened? Did he not pay you? You know, this is why you should have a word with Gary. His girls are always…”
“Gwen!” I cut her off before her New York accent slices through the remaining threads of my sanity. “Would you shut up for a second? I’ve done something stupid.”
“What? No rubber? You gave him your real name? What?”
“I killed him.” The words explode from my mouth. Gwen chokes on the drag she’s just inhaled, and then she’s scouring the room, in search of his body, cigarette held high between her pointy fingers. She turns the color of chalk when she sees him. A beached whale, laid out on the floor. Lips pale, a circle of blood expanding under his head.
“He started beating on me.” My voice trembles as I scurry over to him. Gwen takes slow, baited steps, like he might rise up and shout “boo” any second. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted him off me. He had his hands around my neck, squeezing. And I couldn’t breathe.” Tears roll down my cheeks. “Gwen. Gwen. Please say something.” I shouldn’t have called her, but there’s no one else. The police would take Ben away, hand him over to the state and he’d end up getting screwed by the system. Gwen is the only family I’ve got.
“I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry…”
“We gotta get rid of it,” she interjects.
“What?” I don’t know why I sound so surprised. This is what I’ve been thinking I need to do for the last twenty minutes.
Gwen drops down on the bed and pulls a packet of cigarettes from the waistband of her skirt. She snatches one between her teeth and wraps her crusty red lips around it. She doesn’t light it. She’s far too busy contemplating what we’re going to do with the lifeless mess laid out on the floor.
The silence swells. Maybe it’s because I’m a mother, but as I stand there, eyeballing Mr. McFake Name, watching his puffy white lips turn purple, I start to wonder if he has a family. My skin pricks and I hug my torso tight.
“Knock it off,” Gwen croaks and my bones simultaneously leap from my skin.
“You know what. None of this hooker with a heart BS. This fucker didn’t contemplate your life outside this room. No need to be extending that kind of courtesy to him, you hear?
Gwen could trump a college education with the stuff she’s learned from walking the streets. And for a skinny bitch with chronic asthma she can really pack a punch. I decide not to argue.
“We could take him to the river?” I suggest. Think pupil trying to impress her new principal.
Gwen winces, slips her foot under the icy back of Mr. McFake Name.
“It would be like trying to move a mountain.” She heaves, then spends the next five minutes coughing up a lung. The cigarette, still between her lips, bounces about frantically. “We’d never make it to the parking lot. I suppose we could always chop him up.”
“Fuck that,” I bleat. I get sick watching CSI. She shrugs indifferently while reaching back beneath her waistband. She pulls out a lighter, sparks it up. Her eyes widen as she moves the flame toward her face.
“We could torch the place.”
“You mean set it on fire?” She rolls her eyes at me because of course that’s what she means.
“Who booked the room?”
“Did you show your face in the lobby?”
“No ma’am. Came straight here.”
“Look.” Gwen leaps up off the bed. I watch a little mortified, but mostly intrigued as she pulls the sleeve of her sweater over her hand, plucks another Marlboro from her packet and drives it into Mr. McFake Name’s mouth. “Fell asleep while smoking. Set the whole place alight.”
She grins and I feel ice slip down my spine.
“Have you done this before?”
“Wait.” I hold up a silencing hand. “I don’t want to know. Let’s just get this over with.”
I stand at his head, holding his wrists. Gwen has his ankles. His skin feels damp, kind of waxy, like clasping a candle. He’s going rigid, weighs as much as a rhino.
I feel something pop in my back as we lug him on to the mattress.
“Okay,” Gwen pants, leaning forward on her knees. “You gotta give him a sponge bath.” She waves a pointed finger at his genitals.
“You need to get rid of any DNA.”
She’s right. Fuck.
My lips twist as I tiptoe toward the bed.
“I got some rubber gloves in my purse,” Gwen says, casually, as if she were relaying the weather. A shudder runs through me.
“Hey, Tits Mcgee, judge me when you’re not dressed liked a five foot prophylactic.”
Smiling right now would be inappropriate, but I do anyway because I’m about to sanitize the cock of a corpse.
The room is so clean when we’re done you could perform open heart surgery in it. Well, maybe not that clean, but the fried onions and cheese stench of stale sex is buried beneath bleach and there’s not a drop of blood left on the carpet.
“We’re sure about this?” I ask Gwen as she twists the cigarette a little deeper into Mr. McFake Name’s mouth.
“Do you want to go to prison because this guy couldn’t keep his hands to himself?”
“And the self-defense thing is a definite no?”
She raises her eyebrows at me. Gwen once spent six months in prison for stabbing a guy with a stiletto. He beat her black and blue first, but that didn’t seem to matter.
“Don’t be.” She unscrews the cap off a bottle of Vodka, dribbles it over the bed, over the body, and I can’t help thinking of a Christmas ham, seeing an apple instead of a cigarette wedged between his teeth. Gwen flicks her lighter and sets fire to the wad of newspaper in her hand.
She holds it over Mr. McFake Name’s chest.
“Should we say something?” The words somersault from my mouth when I sense her grip on the flaming torch loosening.
“You mean like a prayer?”
I shrug, can’t say yes because suddenly I feel stupid.
“Sure. I’ll say something.” Gwen smirks. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dick.” And with that she let’s go of the newspaper.
The cardboard bed sheets go up like they’ve been soaked in gasoline and in seconds the body is swallowed by angry orange flames. We stand and watch the fire consume everything it kisses, and pretty soon it’s creeping up the rotting walls. Time to go.
We decide to slip out of the back because it’s more secluded, leads into a back alley instead of a parking lot.
“I could use a drink.” Gwen says, walking over to my side. She hooks her arm through mine and we stroll over to the window. I wish I could say it was the burden of guilt slowing my steps, making them heavy, but it’s not. The only thing I feel right now is exhausted.
“What do you say, Sugar?” Gwen bends her gangly body under the shutter. She turns, slams her elbows down on the sill and feigns chewing gum like every prostitute ever portrayed on the big screen. “You looking for a date?” She winks at me and I flip her the bird.
“Never. Again,” I growl, crawling through the window and joining her outside.
*WOW, Violet! That was awesome!*
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