The beer turns your mouth into a leaking wound. You swallow like you are shoving something alive down your throat, eyes watering, jaw working, a cough strangled back with a smile that looks stitched on. Your laughter comes out too late, delayed like bad audio, and you keep touching your face as if to check whether it is still there. Your skin goes shiny, a slick of sweat and spilled citrus and sweaty perfume. You tell me you are fine. You always tell me you are fine.
I keep you talking so you keep drinking. I ask questions that go nowhere, soft questions, flattering questions, questions that make you feel interesting enough to justify another pour. You lean closer, breath sour and sweet at once, fermented fruit and rot. Your tongue trips over names. You call the bartender by the wrong one and then apologise too hard, a bow that nearly tips you off the stool. I catch your elbow, not to help, just to feel how loose you have become.
Your words start to smear. Sentences collapse into damp heaps. You repeat yourself and do not notice. You tell me a secret and then tell it again, louder, eyes daring me to stop you. Your pupils are blown wide, black coins floating in milk. The vodka has found your spine and is gnawing on it. Your shoulders slump. I pull you away from the bar and into a booth so you won’t fall. But your tit falls out of your shirt.
You spill some vodka on your wrist and lick it without thinking. Your lipstick has migrated to your cheeks. Your mascara has begun to give up, thin black veins crawling down your cheeks. You keep smoothing your skirt, tugging it down, then forget and tug it up again. You laugh at nothing and then stare at the table as if it has insulted you.
I order another round and you nod before I finish speaking. You try to make a joke about pacing yourself, about being responsible, and then you drink half the glass in one go, panic-drinking, as if the liquid might escape. It does not burn anymore. That should scare you, but it does not. Your stomach gurgles wetly. A hiccup punches its way out of you. You blush and clap a hand over your mouth, eyes glassy, childlike and caught.
Your head starts to bob. Your neck cannot quite do its job. You grip the edge of the table. For a second there is fear, naked and honest, and then you drown it with another mouthful. You are sweating through your clothes now. Alcohol is leaking out of you, seeping from pores, turning you into a walking spill.
People are watching you. You do not notice, or you do and you pretend not to. You always did like an audience. You slur my name and lean your weight into me, heavy, boneless. I fondle your tits while you lean your head on my shoulder, feel their stickiness and weight. Your breath is hot and sour as you ram your tongue between my lips for an uncoordinated, hungry kiss. I feel the tremor running through you, the little electrical shudders as your body tries to remember its shape. You are losing time. You ask me what we were talking about. I tell you it was nothing while I lick your neck and you moan in response, way too loudly.
You knock your glass over trying to lift yourself up and stare at the puddle as if it has betrayed you. Vodka spreads across the table, dripping onto your lap. You laugh again, too loud again. I tell you it is adorable. I tell you you look beautiful like this, unguarded, raw, insatiable. You grin at me stupidly and I pour you one more.
By the end you can barely sit upright. Your body is a sack of pudding. Your mouth hangs open, your fat gut spills over your pants, exposed by the lifted shirt. I see new stretch marks, angrily bursting through your skin. Your eyes slide past mine and do not quite focus when they come back. You smell like sweat and distillery. Your dignity was gone first, then your balance, then your words. What is left of you is pure need, humming and stupid and relentless. A doll to feed and fuck and fill.
I hold your face and tell you how impressive you are, how committed, how thoroughly you have followed through. I tell you I admire the way you do not half-arse your destruction. You nod, solemn, believing me. I kiss your forehead like a benediction and whisper that this is what wanting something looks like. You are magnificent in your ruin. Look at you. Look at what you have made of yourself.
dededos
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
kianamaiart
