SHOPPING FOR LOVE - SAME GAMES, DIFFERENT NAMES

It had become habit, this preparation for presentation at the local bars, hoping someone would notice, someone would find her interesting, she might find someone who would love her so she could stop playing this brutal game.

Her emotions were at odds with the idea of replaying the same desperate role of hard to get, yet easily taking the bait and becoming someone’s sexual conquest.

Drinks to help loosen her up enough so that she would agree to play, then back to someone’s bedroom to begin the dance; a passionate kiss filled with the messages of desire, seductively undressing and lying across the bed, breathing as if the deed were done, yet it was only the beginning.

After a lengthy seduction, with her talents honed to perfection, he would finally enter her as she moans with delight. No one needed to know it was all pretense, she felt nothing. She would writhe in a lustful explosion of intense release and continue until he filled her with a token of appreciation, a hard thrust or two, a sudden gasping for air and he would collapse on top of her.

Silence.

He would eventually get up and walk to the bathroom to relieve himself and, as he makes his way to the kitchen, he would ask her if she’d like another drink. She always accepted, not to loosen her up, but to enter a mental fog before reality sets in and she began to understand what it’s all about, the shame, the loss of self, amidst the painful rejection she always knew would follow.

He’d put his clothes back on, mumbling some excuse for having to leave and apologizing, with a promise to call her.

She never gave them her phone number and they always left with pieces of her in their pockets – trophies to show off to their friends as they compare conquests. Then, as if they suddenly turned into pieces of debris, those pieces were tossed carelessly to the ground. Those pieces of her will never be found.

She lay naked between the sheets, feeling that unwelcomed residue, wet beneath her. She would eventually rise to go to the bathroom and notice the toilet has become a swill of toilet water and urine. They didn’t have the good sense to flush after they relieved themselves.

The cum on the sheets, that also ended up running down her leg, along with a bowl of urine water, were her only trophies. This is all she had won after perfecting her makeup and hair, picking out an outfit to compliment her curves, and spending most of her night accepting the drinks one lucky man would offer.

One night.

The losses were adding up.

She always cleaned herself up and returned to her bed, avoiding the wet spot on the other side and making a note to change the sheets tomorrow. She would change them and make up her bed as she makes up herself, and the whole evening would play itself out again, same game, different name.

Sure, her name would be forgotten as quickly as she would forget his, but she would carry the memory of all those shameful acts like dead flowers in a vase. Someday, she will take that vase and throw it against the door as the last one leaves.

The next night would be no different than the countless nights that came before. She was growing weary.

No more crying over spilled “milk”, no more tears of self-pity, no more pain from the emotionally tattered mind that keeps reminding her… one night.

Only one.

Unable to sleep and find peace in her dreams, she filled her glass with cheap bourbon and shook several pills into her hand, thinking this would help her sleep… no more anguish, no more self-loathing, no more fairy-tales with a happily ever after…

She returned to the bathroom to remove her masked existence, but before she does she takes all the pills at once into her mouth and washes them down with the bourbon.

She was aware that there is an awful stench in this place but could not find the source.

Another drink and she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, thinking about what a putrid old corpse she had become. Sure, she could still make herself look fetching enough and she would have no trouble finding someone to “escort” her home and into her bed.

Slowly, she began removing the makeup and brushed out her hair. The reflection never matched her mental vision of what she looked like. Perhaps, she isn’t anything like she imagined herself to be. Maybe it’s all make-believe and she makes them believe. Hell, she even believed it.

She observed herself more closely in the mirror, “Who would ever fall in love with this?”

She stumbled over to the bed, sat on the side until she could no longer balance, finished off the glass of bourbon and laid down.

Two days later, a friend came by to check on her. She hadn’t been at the bar in as many days and that was unusual.

Her friend turned the doorknob and the door opened easily, it had never been locked. On the floor was broken glass from what seemed to be an empty vase. There were no water-marks and no dead flowers, just an empty vase shattered on the floor, just inside the door.

The odor was rank and as she approached the bedroom, calling out her friend’s name, she caught a glimpse of her, frozen on the bed.

The police were called and collected her friend’s remains. The thought crossed her mind...

                               What remains?

It would be difficult, but she had to go out and have a drink. She simply could not be alone on this night. She did her makeup and hair to perfection and found an outfit that complimented her curves. Once she had finished primping, she drove to their favorite bar and she sat down at the farthest end and ordered her usual drink.

A gentleman leaning on the other side of the bar took note and lifted his drink in a faux toast… to what?

Her next drink was on him. And the next drink was delivered by the man himself. She told him about her friend and he gave a semi-sincere and supportive response.

The bar was closing, he offered to escort her back to her apartment.

Different names,

                             same games.

As I fade away, you have already forgotten my name.

I mattered yesterday, but I had no idea this was a game.

We played to win or lose and I never knew the rules.

When do I begin to choose and what happens to fools?

I never choose to play, yet it always ends the same.

There is no more to say, so I will collect my shame

and add it to my taboos, feeling so miniscule.

I paid my dues, still… life is so intensely cruel?

For your rejection, I paid for your right to proclaim

having won the prey. I have no dignity to reclaim.

I didn’t expect this abuse, nor was I prepared for a mental duel.

My fate is a poor excuse; I was the kindling - you were the fuel.

M TERESA CLAYTON