ralu_1982 (ralu_1982) wrote,

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Oz Fic: So? (chaos) So? - part 2

As usual, when my brain refuses to function beyond basic typing abilities...fic posting.

Title: SO? (chaos) SO?
Author: Ralu
Fragment 2.
Status: working on it.

Lyrics used without permission: Patti Smith - Land/Horses/Land of a Thousand Dances/La Mer, The Ramones - Suzy is a Headbanger, The Ramones - What's your game, Lou Reed - Satellite of love.


There's no land but the land...

Thrust in - once, twice, again and again and again - just lie on your back, close your eyes, spread your legs, keep your fucking mouth shut. Moan. Grunt. Swallow.
Do whatever they want, get yours and leave. Just walk away.

Do. Come. Feel. Stop feeling.
Shut down.
Yeah, that's better. Ain't it better? Really?...

The city and the city lights and the city's darkness and it's all in your hands and your hands are yours and you're all to yourself, baby! All to yourself...

'Cause Sheena is a punk rocker and Sheena is Suzy and Suzy is Sheeena is a headbanger, yeah, and nothin', NOTHING can stop that girl, yeah, ooo-whee, do it one more time for me!

I've got everything I need, headbanging bridge bitch or not, whatever man, just name your kink.


"You want me to suck you off?"



Headbanging, headbanging...!

'Cause Sheena is a...

Easy, huh?

I know your name

Except...it's not. Better.
Or worse.
It just is.

I know your game

And...what the fuck would you expect?!
What the fuck you want anyway?...



(What I want...)

Stop it!

(All I ever wanted was...)

Fucking STOP it!

Sweet Mary Jane
You're quite insane.

Get it?


He likes getting into strangers' cars, sitting in the front seat, watching the neon lights and the dark alleys melting into one, people's faces coming out of nowhere and disappearing just as fast in the blink of an eye.
It's all a big mess of unexpected flashes and missing limbs, dark corners and schizophrenic, fluorescent mirrors - all running alongside him.

Running *through* him.

He licks his lips and inhales again. Nicotine's his best friend, for the moment.
Wow, Jaws' at the Domino! Terry saw it and he said it's cool. But Terry's a piece of shit, so you never know. Still, that's one big fuckin' shark, man...

The strangers are all the same - faceless, nameless, soulless. They want something from him and he can deliver. Yeah, that's the magic word, right there: DELIVER.
Everybody's favorite.

Just like Terry or Darren or Anita or any other kid hangin' out on the corner of 6-th and 4-th. Chris ain't different from any of them, he knows that.
Sometimes...sometimes he wishes he were, though he's not quite sure *how*.

In fact, he's pretty unremarkable. Just some scrawny kid with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette between his lips. Back against the wall, looking at nothing in particular. Just...staring.

Sometimes Anita comes by, holding her head between her palms like it's too big for her or something. Anita's ALWAYS hooked, mumbling words Chris doesn't even bother to listen to, smiling just the dopiest smile ever.
Always half-asleep.

Chris can't help but wonder at times how the fuck she even manages to turn tricks in the state she's in; 'cause Anita DOES turn tricks, and she's fuckin' worse that a pimp when it comes to cash. You wanna fuck Anita? No problemo, open your wallet. You wanna fuck her OVER? Anita will fuck *you* up in no time.
Strong as a fuckin' ox, snorting shit all day and sucking cock all night, it's like she's Mighty fuckin' Mouse or something.

Yeah, that's it, Popeye! Popeye the Sailorman, chewing on his spinach and gettin' all muscly all the sudden - that's Anita all right!... On her good days, anyway.

She leans near the wall, and Chris can see her knees are shivering and banging one up against the other - she's got the biggest knees Chris' ever seen on a girl, like a grown fuckin' man, bony and muscular and square.
Not exactly *feminine*, but who the hell cares? They ain't fuckin' her for her knees, right? They ain't fuckin' him for his skinny wrists either, that shit's just...unnoticeable. Unimportant.

"You okay there, Ani?" he asks, and he knows she's not okay and that she don't care that much about what he thinks either.

She's gonna giggle - there it is - she's gonna say some stupid shit about Joey Twotime--

"Heyyya, Chrissie. You seen Joey? Tell him he's a big fat CUNT!"

--then she's gonna scrape against the wall, closer--

"You're all alone here, Chris? You waitin'?"

--closer, arms closing in around his neck, head burying in his chest.

"You waitin' baby, aren't you? I'm waitin' too."

You're ALL cunts.

(All of us.)

Sometimes he wonders if she's got any soul left inside.

"Joey's an asshole," she whispers in the soft skin stretching over his collarbone: "But I love him, you know? I love him."

One second splitting into needle pins burning his fingers, her weight on his hipbone, cock twitching almost instantaneously - and she breaks.

"What the fuck am I to do? What the fuck..."

It ain't like he's never fucked girls before, you know? Not much of a difference from what he can tell.
Just soft against hard, warmth against burn. Same rush, same whirlpool just before hittin' the wall, head fuckin' on.

Breathe in, push, hit.

Breathe out, pull, take.
And move the fuck on.

Sometimes he even forgets what came first: the chicken or the egg, cock or pussy.
Most times it doesn't even matter.

Her thigh rubs against his, lazy at first. Then, almost like a professional runner picking up speed, internally setting up her own rhythm, Anita turns into him and he morphs into her, randomly searching for some kind of a way out, a way in.

Out of themselves. Inside all.

All there is and all there isn't, sweet and sticky and barely palpable, barely there. Horrifying, beneath all the invisible layers.

(Increase the pressure to stop the bleeding. Increase the bleeding to stop the pressure.)

Ani moans in the crook of his neck, and small whimpers rip through her body, arms clinging on to him, fingernails reaching for the flesh on his back, twisting under his T-shirt.


Give me.

Give me, give me, give me, give me, give me...

Chris likes getting into strangers' cars, he likes sitting on the front seat, he likes riding across town - black and white and yellow and blue and red and black and white and yellow and...

It's easy to break someone into pieces. Easier than most people might think.
It's easy to put the pieces back together. But they'll never fit again, not like before.
Never ever.

(Take seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years - compress, combine, morph.)

They fuck in Joey Twotime's bed; they fuck near Joey's bed, they fuck on his night table, they fuck on his bathroom floor. Ani's blonde hair gets entangled between his fingers, she moans half asleep, Ani's always half asleep, always transfixed somewhere beyond, above, over... She covers his mouth with her fingers, presses down hard, bites his neck, pulls and pushes and drags and scratches and folds and unfolds like the edges of a burning newspaper - do you still have it?
You still have it, Ani?

He goes down on her, sliding lower and lower over the stained yellow sheets and she shivers, holds her breath 1 2 3 4 5 seconds, hands grabbing at his wrists, clutching over his long fingers; one small sigh, flesh spasming erratically under his breath, a long, ragged whimper. Then she turns on her side, drags her legs together near her chest.

It's soft, quiet, almost imperceptible.
But Chris - Chris fucking Keller - hears her; he FEELS her. The smooth, vibrating murmur choking into the rough edges of the bed, Ani's silent little sob, like a little kid's.

You still have it?
(Do *you*?...)

Ani tells him they like it if you "express yourself". Well, most guys. You just gotta...sense it.
"It ain't natural, you know," she tells him. "Some fuck tells you you're born with it, he's a fucking liar. Just a thing you learn, you know? Experience."

Her hand runs up over her red stocking, across her knee - the biggest knees Chris' ever seen on a girl - and stops just close to the edge of her skirt.

"You watchin' this?" she says, and her fingers slide slowly under her black skirt. "You think I was born doin' this?" Big, toothy grin, smoke slithering through her lips. "It's easy, Chris. Easiest thing in the world. It's what they want."-- one finger running over his carotid artery, nail digging for blood: "And you got it."

Easiest thing in the world.

Except for when it isn't.

Chris turns on his side and tries to slide down from the bed. It's pitch black, the blackest darkness in the darkest night on the year, and he lands on the floor with a quiet thump and a restrained gasp.
Find you sneakers, find your sneakers...

He's terrified.

He reaches a bit tentatively between he legs, like he's never done it before, and it's almost laughable. Almost. It's sticky and it's wet and it is incredibly fucking sore and painful and he knows he's bleeding, he's bleeding like he's never bled before.

Every move he makes travels through his body like a red hot iron spear, ripped and strained nerves stretching underneath his skin, screaming with each move he makes. He crawls on the dirty floor, jeans wrapped around his ankles.
Looking for his sneakers.

He stumbles over a chair, harsh noise scratching the unusual, eerie silence; and Chris freezes, cleaving onto the floor, holding his breath.
He can't do it.
(Look up, for God's sake, look the fuck up!)

Chris knows he's still in there. He doesn't have to look. He just knows.

"Easiest thing in the world, baby" - Ani's voice slithers inside his mind, oddly morphing into his mom's. Easiest thing ever.
Get yours and run.
(Look up.)

And so he looks up.
And he's gone.

Chris likes getting into strangers' cars, Chris likes riding the subway at night and smoking on the roof of the four storey building bound to be soon demolished, blowing rings of smoke at the blue, empty sky.

He likes sleeping on a bench in the park in the middle of June and watching TV in some diner, sipping on the same stale cup of coffee for hours, listening to the family across from him talking about football, the couple behind him arguing about holiday plans.
He chuckles to himself when the 4-year-old across from him makes funny faces at his father when he's not looking and he breaks into laughter when the chick behind him calls her boyfriend a 'lousy fuck'. He needs people; he hates them, but he needs them like he needs air.

The older woman sitting at the counter looks at him and smiles back.

"One of these days, those pig cops will pick you up," she says, brushing her elbow against his on the table. Her old man's been in and out of jail more times than she can count; he knows this because he knows how to listen. He always listens.

"Shit happens," he replies, grinning.

She pours him one more cup of coffee even though he can't pay for it.

"Not my diner, ain't my fucking loss, baby."

And he leans into her for one small second, inhaling deep. She smells like kitchen smoke and cheap perfume.

"You smell nice." He's lying through his teeth, and she knows it. He just knows what to say.

"Yeah well, you don't." And she grins back, brushing her sticky fingers though his hair.

He likes attention and he likes freedom; and he likes *thinking* nobody's telling him what to do, what to think.
Who to be.

The little jukebox in the corner plays endlessly silent:

Satellite’s gone
Way up to Mars
Soon it will be filled
With parking cars

And Chris murmurs under his breath, blue eyes roaming over the diner, over people's faces. Endlessly.

The family across from him leaves, and Chris watches them exiting the diner, walking together on the sidewalk.

I watch it for a little while
I love to watch things on tv...

Dad leans forward and picks up the little laughing kid on his shoulders. And Chris stops watching.

Next to his left side, a man in his 40's picks up his cup of coffee mug and bangs his knee into Chris'. Once, twice, three times.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday to Thursday
With Harry, Mark and John

He's still seeing Herbie, now and then. When he ain't got no money or he's got no other place to stay. Actually, he sees Herbie more than he'd like to admit; they fuck and Herbie gives him money, but it don't feel like tricking to Chris. He (still) likes him, Chris can tell. He can always tell shit like that.

And Herbie still lets him sleep over; and he still cooks for him.
(Now and then.)

Satellite’s gone...

Then Chris brushes his thigh against the guy's, letting his hand slowly rub over the side of his leg, close to his crotch.

"You want another cup of coffee?" the guy asks, looking in his direction, but not looking into his eyes.

"I want something to eat," Chris growls, showing his teeth like one of those monkeys he's seen on TV.

"Sure thing."

Man, it's so easy.
It really is easy, ain't it?

Everybody's so fucking easy.

Chris' favorite game.

Tags: oz fic
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