Doing Elly

The drunk woman at the bar is explaining the British Invasion to me...or she's explaining the Motown sound...and Elvis...and she's explaining it by yelling into my ear, even though it's not that loud inside.

I already regret telling her I'm in the 'music biz', but my date has stood me up and I'm sitting alone at a bar that I don't like, drinking a cup of instant coffee that the bartender sullenly agreed to prepare, "just for me", she notes.

I tip her a dollar for the courtesy.
There's lipstick on the mug.
The coffee tastes like battery acid.

Drunk woman tells me her name, which I immediately forget. She's drinking vodka and pretending to be someone she's not- worse, she's pretending that I'm someone I'm not...I decide to call her Elly Higginbottom.

Did I know Jimi Hendrix got his start playing on tour with Elvis Presley?

No, I didn't. That sounds like bullshit to me, but I just nod.

Christ. I thought I was meeting someone I liked, but she isn't here. I've waited almost an hour-where is she? An hour is a long time when it's spent with Elly. She was kind of pretty until the third Stoli, after which she had a musical epiphany about Elvis or Clapton or something. She gets uglier as she drinks... most people do.

Whatever it is that she's discovered about the roots of rock and roll, it's depressing me almost as much as the realization that I'm going to wind up fucking this obnoxious drunk woman.

God. I hardly say anything at all while Ms. Higginbottom edifies me with her musical knowledge. She invites herself over to see my guitars. I don't even participate in my own seduction.
I say OK.
Stupid.

My house is a mess...really...she says she doesn't care. She tells me that she's a slob (as if I didn't know) so it's OK... man, I'm barely even here. I'm getting ready to get laid and I don't even care.
Elly has to go down on me just to get my attention- I imagine that she's someone else and this helps a lot. I even call her this other woman's name...maybe it's hers too. Maybe she doesn't care.
Pretending makes it better. This is not so bad, I think.

It's been a long time for me...where are those condoms?
Ah! Here!
Shit. This fucker is five years old.
What comes out of the square packet is so stiff and dried out that it's more like a poker chip than a condom.
Elly tries to force it onto my cock with both hands. Roughly.
This hurts! I almost come, but it still hurts.
No good. The lube is long gone.

Hold on- I run to the 7-11 , buy a really expensive box of fishscales and drive back as fast as I can- despite it all ,I'm still pretty excited.
I dash back inside and find my apartment smells weird- more than usual.
What's that burning smell?

Elly's asleep on my tiny bed and her cigarette , still in hand, has started burning my mattress. No flames, thank godzilla- I dump a glass of water on it and it seems ok- just a tiny hole - but the odor is ghastly. It's a terrible chemical smell, mixed with tobacco smoke and Elly's vodka-tinged musk... I can't help but vomit.

It's all making me ill. This whole sick night is summed up in one lurching mouthful of puke.
I'm not getting drunk, I'm not getting laid- I'm just getting sick and I hate all of it.

I go to wake up Elly. I've decided she has to go home. Now.

She's already awake and doesn't seem to notice she's sitting on a wet mattress in a stinky, smoky room. She grabs me.
Goddamn, but she is rough. There's not much I can do at this point but surrender.

Pretending makes it better.

I pretend to be asleep when she leaves.
She doesn't leave a note.