This is the first chapter in my original story entitled “Thirsty Bitch.” It was written partially in response to the people who tell me “Write your own stories then!” when I decide to speak up about media representation and diversity (particularly after my “Open Letter to Tim Burton” article went viral). And partially because I’ve just always loved writing and it’s time that I shared my work under my own conditions. So here we are.
No, I will not stop speaking about the importance of media representation, but now, whenever someone decides to tell me “make your own!” I can proudly say that I have.
I’d been watching him all night, never once losing sight of him amid the smoke and clinking glasses. So many bodies, and he hadn’t seen me at all, but that was fine. He was mine. He’d see plenty of see me back at home. I’m not bothered when he talks to the petite girl with the ivory skin and pink pastel hair, making her giggle. I don’t feel anything when he gives her a charming smile, nearly perfect pearly whites framed by full lips and a well-kempt beard. He does what is expected of handsome men: whatever the fuck he wants. That’s a big part of the understanding that makes everything alright. I can’t get worked up over what he does, or I’ll end up dissatisfied and struggling with nothing but impossibly high standards to keep me warm at night. I used to take issue with it, sure, but I decided that I had to adjust. Some of my brothers and sisters don’t understand. They romanticize the suffering; the ethical and moral dilemma, the very notion of internal struggle gives them a fucking hard-on…but I digress.
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The pastel haired girl walked away, giving him one of those “I’ll be back” looks, and my objective was suddenly clear: I wanted to get him out of here before she came back from giving herself a pre-sex pep talk, or whatever her particular “I’m gonna fuck this stranger tonight” warm-up routine was. The world around me danced into a blur, and my body was alive with the rush of an active pursuit. I swiftly pushed through the crowd to avoid the possibility having to confront her. It’s not that I was afraid of potentially making a scene, so much as I was impatient; I just didn’t have it in me to deal with some angry, inebriated, horny white girl. I was too thirsty for that drama. I touched his arm, accidentally startling him, which sent beer sloshing from the side of his glass and onto his shirt. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I gasped, widening my eyes. “I didn’t mean-“ but he smiled and cut me off before I could finish my spiel.
“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t planning on wearing it for much longer anyway, haha” his voice was pleasant. Not especially deep, but smooth and friendly in a way that aroused me. I wasn’t taken aback by his forwardness in the way he’d probably hoped; it just made my job easier.
“Then let’s go. I’ll take it off for you, since its present state of saturation is my fault,” I fought off the urge to cringe at both his lame ass pickup line and my willingness to play along; it’s not my style, but again, I was practically parched at that point. At any rate, he bought it (after asking me what I meant and having me repeat myself “in a more normal way, haha”), and I was leading him out of the crowded bar and back to my place.
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On the mattress of my creaky futon, he seemed to marvel at my body. I guess I should have been flattered, but I was preoccupied, mainly with desire. “Your skin is really pretty. Like. Wow. Haha”
Nothing you’ve said has been even kind of funny, and yet you keep laughing. Amazing. “Uuuh, thanks,” I smiled, moving close enough to press my body against his and kiss his neck. He smelled like a medley of cheap cigarettes and cheaper beer, but I didn’t care. I wanted him. He could have reeked of a rotten skunk’s asshole and it wouldn’t have turned me off. I hadn’t had any in a while. I needed him, so much so that I was shaking slightly. He noticed, asking if I was ok while groping and rubbing my bare skin.
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“You nervous? It’s cool. Like, don’t be. I mean, I guess I am too. You’re really hot, but I’ve never been with a black girl before, haha” he rambled, yet again punctuating his statement with that increasingly irritating “haha” although not a single laughable thing had transpired. I hid my annoyance and spoke sweetly, with my lips just barely brushing the warm flesh of his throat.
“Never been with a black girl before? Well, what about a vampire? Haha,” I tore into him before he could reply, savoring the boozy undertones of his blood, drinking until I was satisfied. All that mattered was that I had quenched my thirst. The killing didn’t bother me at all…
Not until she showed up, anyway.
To be continued…
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