Drunken Thoughts:
A Woman's Touch
Warning: Contains Vulgar Language
I own nothing of the Hunger Games series.
The touch from a woman's hand can send a man's thoughts lower than he deemed possible. The wetness of her kiss, the taste of her tongue, and the plumpness of her lips can eradicate any and all sense of coherent thought for a man. Her curvaceous body, her round chest, and her slender legs can dominate the mind of a man within a matter of moments. I know, because I once succumbed to all these visions. But not since the Hunger Games.
When I was younger, the idea of a naked woman sent chills throughout my body. I told every girl I dated how much I loved her to get her in my bed. Running my hands down her body, hearing her moans and groans under my lips, and later the actual sex were the only elements I needed to desire myself to stay alive. A woman's touch is all a man needs to want to breathe, the only passion we can rarely refuse. Sure, we act tough and apathetic, but if playing it sweet gets us to the physical consequence then I would pretend to be a princess every time. The feel of a woman, the physical and raw moment, sent me soaring.
Even in the beginning of the first Hunger Games, I continued to hold on to my desire for sex. To find a woman to screw came second in my life shortly after surviving. But something about the murder and the deaths and the bastard Careers made me reevaluate my life and question the want for a woman. Hell, I still loved the sexual relations and giving my dick the release it deserved. However, it didn't take me long to realize that any sort of intercourse couldn't relieve the nightmares that haunted my dreams, when I slept and while I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Alcohol became my reason for breathing, especially after the Quarter Quell. No visions of naked, marvelously sexed-up women could cure the demons chasing my memory. I took up a bottle of whiskey and drowned it the first night I returned to District 12 following my second games. From then, the body of a woman was replaced with the outline of a glass bottle and I stuck to my drug. Whiskey, rum, beer, vodka, bourbon, I drank it all. After awhile, the screaming and the visions grew into a low hum in the back of my brain. The nightmares never completely vanished, but they grew nebulous enough and I accepted my fate.
I never thought a glass of liqueur could give me the same level of passion as a woman, though not in the same fashion. I think the best sex now would be drunk sex, but then I wouldn't give a damn what happened so long as a drink was in arm's reach. I guess sex no longer holds the same appeal it had. What a pity.
I bet Maysilee Donner would have continued her life with her family. Or maybe she'd have taken my road and lived out the remainder of her worthless existence in alcohol. Or maybe she'd have discovered physical appeal and made her living as a whore. But I'll never know, because I survived. Here I am, pulling on a pair of shoes to go out in the disastrous weather to hit up the bar. I grin remorsefully, because no one will ever understand my pain, my loneliness and my confusion.
But the alcohol doesn't care about my past and it sure as hell doesn't care about my future. Yet, it's always there for me. It's never late, or breaks promises, and has no problem waiting a few hours while I sleep or if I'm recalling my previous life before alcohol became my god.
I stand in the doorway of my Victor house. The image of a woman, a nameless yet beautiful creature, flashes in my mind's eye. For a moment, I think my penis is reacting to the body, still alive after all these years. That is, until I notice her figure curve in an impossible direction until her silhouette is transformed into a beer bottle. I chuckle pitifully as I open the door.
A woman's touch once paralyzed me. Now, I spend every moment hoping alcohol will do the same to my mind.
_HG-CF-MJ
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