Fitting the Pieces Together- By Aleximander.
I awoke with a start, dried spittle clinging to my yellow skin. The buttons of my suit groaned as I moved, my square body struggling to lift me from my creaking, wooden chair. As I rose, the room spun around me.
"Damn," I said aloud, "too much to drink."
You couldn't blame me. The world noticed me only once, and when it did it decided I needed a suckerpunch to the groin. My wife left me a couple months ago. She took with her my son, my house, and my pride as a man. I work at a dead-end detective job scrubbing floors while waiting for the occasional client to barge in demanding I spy on neighbors for near-minimum wage.
I looked around my decrepit office. The white-washed walls hid the years of wear under it. My shelves were cluttered, near bursting with documents I long since stopped caring to organize. My afore-mentioned floors shined, a mirror wasted on the environs they projected.
Then, as if to break the solemn silence the room had seemed to absorb into itself, suddenly through my aging wooden door burst a half-clothed woman. She wasn't what you would call sexy; her body was all left angles and her skin was a shimmering bright red. As homely as she was though she seemed to radiate... confidence? I couldn't tell, especially not in my still half-drunken state.
In any case, what she spit out was a little less enchanting than the juxtaposition of her body. She spewed the usual nonsense I had come to expect working as a private eye. Her name was Charon. She thought her boyfriend had went and linked himself up with another block, and she wanted some hard dirt on him. Honestly if I had the choice I would kick losers like these out. A sob story always leads to unneeded drama, and I got enough yelling from my ex-wife. But shit, I needed the money. I agreed, promising pictures if she paid double. Sucker.
I drove my beaten, old 92' chevy up 29 Line St., stopping when I reached the address she gave me. The door was built for an L-shaper. The house itself was old but clearly well cared for. The yard slightly shabby but clearly not overgrown, a staple for cleanly middle-classers. All this information, of course, I gleaned in the blink of an eye. Profiling for future reference.
The culprit made himself known soon enough when he went to check his mail. Charon said his name was Chris, and that I shouldn't let appearances fool me, that he was a lier and a cheat, yaddy yaddy ya. Honestly I felt bad for the guy. Whether or not he slept around, having a detective piecing together his life was degrading.
Thinking this, I proceeded to rummage through his garbage.
Bingo. Used condom. L-sized. Fresh. I pocketed it away, knowing it would be invaluable for the investigation to follow. Finding little else of note, I started cleaning up when to my right I heard the sound of rustling. There he was.
"What are you doing going through my trash?" Chris demanded.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
I had to think fast.
I kissed him on the lips, hard, hoping it would buy me time while I made my escape. To my surprise, he softened to my kiss, bringing me closer.
"I don't know who you are, creep." He said, "But I can't just let you go with a kiss like that."
Ah. It made sense now. The clean house. The hysterical ex-girlfriend. The condom. Chris was a closet homosexual, and I just dangled the keys.
He carried me in his arms through the doorway and up a flight of stairs into his bedroom. The room, like the rest of the house, was clean and orderly. The bed, however, was stained with semen. The whole room stank of passion. Perhaps not closet homosexual, I thought. More like blatant man-candy.
"A-Are we really going to do this?" I stammered, suddenly struggling with words. "I've never- you know- I've never had S-Se- intercourse with another man before."
He seemed to contemplate this for a moment, before leaning forward with a coy smile. "Don't worry. That's what the liquor is for."
Ah yes. Alcohol. The one driving force in my life. It permeated my marriage. It coddled me in my divorce. It kept me from suicide. And now it would dull me from the pain of being ravaged in the ass by a tetris block.
I drank long and deep, the liquid filling my throat, my lungs, my soul. "I'm ready." I said, mustering courage.
When I turned around I noticed Chris had already changed. His prominent L-shaper already swathed in plastic and primed with lube.
We went all night, his curved member fitting awkwardly into my square-shaped bumhole.
The next morning I awoke at my office battered, bruised and oh-so satisfied. On my desk was a check for five hundred dollars signed by Chris. But he gave me far more than that. I recalled the events of yesterday, commited it to memory.
For you see Chris left me bruised but alive. He awakened me to the possibilities of the world. I didn't need a woman to satisfy me anymore. I was free.
I jumped off my balcony and hit the pavement thirty feet below.
I was free.