The Ugliest Flower

Dated: 8/12/07

And tonight is just like any other night. I’m at another upscale club in the heart of the meat packing district, drunk as fuck, dancing with some girl—no older than seventeen—dressed in a bulky maternity smock that makes her look more corpulent than she actually is. Truth is, I have a feeling that her frequents to the bathroom involve self-inflicted acts of regurgitation followed by a shot of Listerine.

She is bent over in a chaotic fashion; her ass thrashes violently against my masculinity while I hopelessly try to sip on my watered-down Vodka and Redbull. My efforts are futile and end disastrously as I spill half my drink onto her vile yellow dress. But she doesn’t even care; she’s too drunk from the apple martinis and too hot from her hankering for techno to give a fuck.

And I’m looking at my friend, Chester, who’s sucking on some unconscious girl’s areolas. I’m looking at the promoter who joyously dances over to our table with another complimentary bottle of Grey Goose, wearing a black V-neck t-shirt and dog tags that he bought from Ed Hardy over a year ago. I’m looking at the custodian—possibly a distant relative—who’s mopping up my accident. I’m watching the DJ—a friend of mine—spin a mix that sounds exactly like a Girl Talk song I was listening to on my iPod this afternoon while picking up a new pair of Prada loafers.

There is no better way for me to describe the pretentiousness of the city. And it all means nothing. We’re all so full of shit that everyone in this place is in dire need of a colonic.

As the beat grows faster, so do my bumps and grinds. And the girl, unable to keep the pace, stumbles to the floor, knocking over the chasers on my table. That stupid, graceless bitch. But I still want to fuck her, so I grab her by the arm and help her to her feet. There is no such thing as a selfless act. Once she regains her balance, she continues to dance as if nothing ever happened. My friends at the booth are laughing hysterically and I realize there will be no gratification if I fuck her.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I shout over the somewhat infectious house music.

She doesn’t respond. As I am walking to the restroom, I look back to see if the girl is still waiting for me. I watch as she wipes beads of sweat off her forehead, fixes her soiled smock, grabs another drink, and dances with some guy in a flamboyant Etro collared shirt. Slut.

When I enter the bathroom, I head straight for the stall. My mind is itching to know whether the yip I bought from one of the promoters is even worth entering my nasal passage. I break up the llello in the gram bag and wonder if there are any other feasible uses for manufacturing these pouches. Yip-lock bags.

I lick my finger, pick out a small amount and gum it. My mouth grows numb and the blood from my body starts to pump with a caustic intensity as I realize the cocaine is legit. I dip the butt of a Parliament cigarette into the bag, scoop out the bouncing powder, and proceed to bump it. I place the bag back into my Dolce & Gabbana jeans and exit the stall. I give the bathroom attendant two dollars and tell him his bathroom is great for snorting yak. The foreigner shakes his head and smiles; he has no idea what the fuck I’m talking about.

As I exit the bathroom, I notice a change. The world is slightly more blithe, more euphoric. Everything has a beat. And I’m dancing to the tune of the world using gyrations that seem to divulge my true, deep-rooted intentions.

I swagger over to this beautiful, slim figure—object if you will—wearing a multicolored bandeau dress that ends slightly an inch above its knees. In the midst of the chaotic environment, it sways like a water snake, creating its own balmy ambiance.

As I approach it, she materializes and I can feel the world silence around us. The bass booms and my heart bumps, yet she remains collected. Once our bodies touch, everything bursts back into action, exploding into a million little pixels and retracting to create a frenzied sketch that mimics a Kandinsky painting.

And I too can see sound as color.

I feel her tight grip on my forearms. I feel her sultry stare seep its way into my dilated eyes. I feel the warmth of her body tug fervently at mine. I feel it all. It feels like lust, pure unrefined lust.

And I’m closing my eyes and dreaming about all the dirty things I will do to her—whips, chains, and knives—anything my sick mind can envisage. I’m dreaming about busting a Peter North sized load all over her naturally unnatural breasts.

But before I can collect my thoughts, I notice my hands are steadily rising up her dress. I notice as my fingertips slowly inch their way past the band of her seamless thong. And there I am, fingerblasting the shit out of this girl in the middle of Tenjune. The sweet stench of desire permeates the sultry air as her moist rosebud respires to the rhythm of the music. Her head tilts back savagely, hanging low like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. As her head moves forward, a torrent of vomit spews from her mouth with such deep-rooted intentions, attacking my new white Ermenegildo Zegna button-up in an anarchic fashion.

Horror invades my countenance as I push the stupid bitch out of my way and shout, “Are you fucking serious?”

The look that’s on her face is one of childlike innocence and remorse.

But I’m a heartless dick so I persist, “You dumb fucking cunt. Learn how to hold your fucking liquor. What are you twelve?” I take off my shirt, throw it at her and continue, “This was a three hundred dollar shirt and now it’s worthless. I can’t even wipe my ass with it. You stupid, stupid bitch. Do you know how many dicks you’d have to suck to pay for this? I hope you die a slow, painful death. I’d do it myself, but you aren’t worth my time.” And she tries to mutter something that sounds like ‘I’m sorry’ but I interrupt, “No, please—don’t speak. You smell like dick cheese. Enjoy your night.”

And I leave her there to bask in the grisly stench of Mojitos, sushi and bile. I leave her there to sulk in her obtuse actions. I hope she goes home, downs a bottle of Xanax, and dies. I know I’m being melodramatic, but sometimes it’s hard for me to control my emotions.
I exit the club, knowing it’ll be almost impossible for me to find a girl to fuck when I reek of vomit. I know I’m a catch, but there’s a limit to how much a girl will tolerate. And considering my narcissism, malcontent and guile, I don’t believe there is any room for the miasma of some girl’s insides.

It’s two thirty at night (or morning depending on whether you are out clubbing or inside watching Fresh Prince reruns) and I desperately need someone to deceive: an ingenuous woman eager to feel loved—even if it is only for the night. Despite my apparent misogynistic tendencies, I need women. I am hopeless without them. They complete me. My temperament is what prevents me from ever truly loving them. Contrary to what you may believe, remorse is something I feel constantly. I consider them objects, not because I think they are insubstantial articles undeserving of any mortal compassion and benevolence, but because I am incapable of providing such luxuries. I need to objectify them in order to quell the insecurities that plague my own existence. I look for girls that are even more subjugated by their emotions than I am. I feed off their dejection. I need them for sustenance. I love women because I hate myself.
That being said, I digress. And I’m walking aimlessly down the streets of New York supremely inebriated but still bumping from the coke. The brazen and deplorable summer breeze relentlessly howls, sending chills that travel from my toes to my fingertips. It births this incessant feeling of loneliness deep within my soul.

Can anybody find me somebody to lust?

Just as this feeling of perpetual isolation calcifies, I stumble upon some helpless soul begging for change on the street. She is a young woman—possibly too young—dressed in tattered garments that compliment her soul quite nicely. There is an overbearing stench of piss and must; it conquers the stench of vomit that emanates from my clothes with such ease. She looks like salvation.

I approach the vagabond as she keeps repeating, “Could you spare some change, kind sir?” I bend down and look her directly in the eyes (blue). She continues, “Please sir, please could you spare some change? I’m so hungry. Please—”

And I interrupt her foolish pleas, “You look hungry.” I smile at her with the hope of quelling her anxiety. “When’s the last time you had a nice piece of meat in you?” And as I say this I notice that she’s salivating. She really is hungry. And I do plan to feed her. “Come with me,” I say while giving her a wink. “I’ll give you a nice meal and a warm place to stay for the night.”
At first she seems hesitant, but necessity precedes everything, even pleasure.
For me, my necessity is pleasure.

And she agrees to get into a cab with me. During the drive, neither of us says a word. I’m thinking about all the things I’m going to do to her. I can only imagine what she’s thinking. Food. Shelter. Clothing.

We get to my apartment and the taxi driver tells me the ride costs $13.75. I look at the homeless woman and say, “Do you think you can get this one? I’ll get you back tomorrow.” She blankly stares at me; she doesn’t know what to say. I look at her and laugh, “I’m just fucking with you.” As I hand a twenty to the cab driver, I can see through my peripherals the young woman admiring the bill as if it were a papule on her labia. “Keep the change.”

I am such a gentleman: I open the door for her, help her out of the car, and slip a dollar into her jacket pocket. When we enter my apartment, she heads straight for the refrigerator. “Hey, what are you doing?” I ask in a noxious tone. “Relax, there’ll be plenty of time for you to eat.”

I survey her body—the way her long, unwashed hair travels down past her 32A-cupped breasts, the way the ash graces her elbows and knees like light snow on a windowsill, the way her emaciated frame compliments her bony, gaunt face, aged by the effects of affliction and turmoil. And I continue, “But first you’ll have to do something for me.” I look over at my bedroom, trying to be discreet; but I decide, fuck it, and I tell her to get on top of my bed. And due to her current circumstance, she complies. I am the God of plenty she has been praying to every night.

Since I’ve already had a bottle of Goose to the face, I am prepared to fuck anything and everything. This stack of negligible matter actually looks like a prepossessing Mona Lisa to me. And there she is, posing elegantly on my bed as if she is waiting for me to paint her. Her pain-plagued eyes follow me around the room, but she never moves. I am an artist and she is my canvas, something I shall paint my torment upon.

And in my drunken state, I’m as graceful as an elephant; my moves are not smooth: they are heavily, but poorly calculated. And in one swift motion, I jump on top of her, and then fly off my bed and onto the floor. She laughs. I don’t think it’s funny; but I’ll give her something to laugh about.

I hop back onto the bed, placing one leg between her coarse thighs, rubbing one knee against her stale mound. She moans. Her head tilts back feverishly as she spreads her legs wider. I glaze her pillars with my palms, tracing the grittiness with my fingertips. And she wants it so desperately, just like everyone who has been in this bed before her. Her breathing elevates, and as she exhales, the pernicious gas of affliction swims its way past her chapped lips.

I push up her skirt with my eager hands, blessing every moment with prodigious suspense. Her threadbare underwear is inundated with withering flowers and grey-haired bumblebees. Sparse hairs eject from her mound and pierce her panties in a chaotic fashion. I’m drunk with desire and everything spins in a frenetic manner, but whatever images my glazed eyes capture are reminiscent of a Picasso painting—ugly shapes that fuck each other in such obscure ways that the end result is pure pulchritude.

Yet, my other senses are not as pleased with my choice, not like sight and touch. I peel off her panties and begin to kiss around her peach. But the taste is not as sweet as I had remembered. My lips get closer to her flower, inching in like worms, without any regard for time. But the stench is not as sweet as I remembered. Disgusted and drunk, I act out of pure whim by grabbing the Febreze bottle on my nightstand. I begin to spray it generously into her pink sheath. The mist billows from her Amorphophallus paeoniifolius swelling outward into the caustic air. I cough.

The stench of corpses is too much for me to bear, so I throw a towel at her. She gets the hint and enters the bathroom. She seems unfazed, as if this has happened to her before. Maybe she really is that hungry.

The shower screams rape as she enters the tub. I can see her through a crack in the bathroom door rubbing down her sunburned body with a bar of soap. I can see the dirt and grime swim down her skeletal design, unveiling the beauty that was underneath her ghastly shell. She was a swan in duck’s clothing.

She leaves the bathroom in nothing but a towel, her hands at her sides, waiting for me to bark my next order.

I stand in front of her, looking straight into her eyes, marking my territory with my stare. I grab her shoulders and guide her to my bed. She sits down with her hands on her knees. The towel unravels.

And there she is, exposed, vulnerable. And there I am, my jeans around my ankles, fucking her with a fury that burgeons into a vehemence that explodes. She fucks with such desperation, such deep-rooted destitution. Once you fuck for food, every other sexual encounter you have just isn’t the same. And I thrust chaotically, trying desperately to fill the well. Her flower blooms, breathing heavily around my swollen stamen. She writhes. I’m spent.

Beauty really does come from within.

And she’s hungry, but I’m tired.

“I think you should go,” I say, thanking her for letting me borrow her body for the night.
I grab her clothes and put them in her hands. She barely has her torn, sullied dress on by the time she leaves my apartment. Regret graces her countenance and she hangs her head low like an anemic flower.

Now I know that some of you may think I’m a callous, insensitive fuck, but don’t worry; I throw a Nature’s Valley granola bar at her once she’s in the hallway. She seems grateful. She eats like she fucks. And I am content.

This is Manhattan. This is man.