flossing out chile




abe



         I looked at my face in the mirror. I imagined flossing my teeth. The string forced between each tooth, the cleansing of such essential parts of me; the meat and beans of every last meal. It’d clear all my mistakes and successes, hopefully straighten out the scattered thoughts of a fucked up, detoxing mind. Each chunk of gunk flung from the floss slapping against the mirror would release another bad or great memory, another mistake or triumph I’d made during my 35 years of life. The downside of cocaine was the up-and-coming feature of my own personal review and assessment of every glob of slush that had been my life up to this point. The depression was sinking in after snorting and smoking (even though smoking is always a waste of blow unless it’s cooked into crack) an eight-ball (that’s over 3 grams for the church, mosque and temple goers out there) of blow by myself—just… coming… down.

         The knock came from the door or heaven or hell, but I was pretty sure it was from the door. The police in Chile are generally relaxed, but I still got nervous about knocks when I was blown up. There was still a fat line, my last one, designed/shaped erratically into a lightning bolt on my bedside table; the bolt symbolized something long forgotten (about 10 to 15 minutes before), but the bolt made sense at the moment it was created… well, immediately created after an enormous line had just been pumped into a brain that didn’t need any more- not one grain more- of coke.

         After flicking off the lights, finishing the line and uselessly checking the reflection of my nose for flakes in the dark, I opened the door to find the most obvious discovery—the girl I’d been seeing for several months. A stunning, sexually-bound, and low-maintenance in strange circumstances Chilean girl. She knew the score and had the ability to calm me whenever she found me in this situation, which was every weekend. Without thought, she dropped to her knees and unzipped the best place.

         “Can I talk to him?” she asked in the only English words she knew besides ‘how are you?’ as her lips and tongue began their course. This was always her way of initiating a blowjob; I never asked anyone if ‘talk to him’ was a translation from Spanish that somehow meant giving brain… it never mattered. She was always great at it and always well-timed. She was as good at head as she was bad at English. Any language other than Spanish was her only fault.

         As she worked at the tiny stack of coins that used to be a normal dick, I imagined floss pushing through the 1st and 2nd teeth: this is where the memory crouched of a table of co-workers at a bar in Hanoi when I tossed out a well-placed pun about ‘sweat tourism’ that took the place of ‘sex tourism’; it made sense at the time because we’d been talking about the horrors of sex tourism and then the conversation took a swing into sweatshops. The talk was too deep for me, and I needed a segue to something lighter. I threw it out at just the right time, it was received well, but it was a harsh joke that took about 3 seconds for an entire table of mixed nationalities to start laughing, everyone waiting for our Vietnamese friends at the table to begin the laughter. Still not sure if everyone thought it was funny.

         The dental rope seemed to plunge into the gap of the 2nd and 3rd as my soldier tried to stand at full salute, the Chilean knew I was deep in unnecessary thought and worked vigorously to help me escape, but the gap contained the time I fucked a good friend’s girlfriend in Arkansas and never told him about it. Neither did the girlfriend, that’s a secret for both of us to the grave… but I knew and know that she and I still think about it.

         My coins began to grow. My previously mentioned friend’s girlfriend was hot—this image and sound of her satisfied grunts helped just a bit more than the memory hurt. Then the unspeakable awfulness of a memory that stood between numbers 3 and 4 luckily moved to the backburner.

        Blowjobs have always been merely a prelude to sex for me—rarely a source of climax. It was time to concentrate, time to stop my thoughts and eyeballs from pointing different directions, time to focus on something else.

         “Let’s get into bed,” without really asking, I lifted her arms and her lips popped off the end of the dick, making the ‘plop’ sound of someone pulling a lollipop out of their mouth that they weren’t finished sucking, and we awkwardly moved to the bed while undressing. She straddled me and, as I sank into her, gap 4/5 flossed out the time I stood alone fishing the lake that separates China from Siberia; I didn’t catch anything, but I was happy. Turned out, the fish I was using as bait were actually fish for eating—I’d just overrated my level of Mandarin and bought the wrong fish for fishing. Figured it out after going back to the bait shop and using my Mandarin-English dictionary, which I should’ve done in the first place instead of wasting an entire day cussing the lake. Still walked away from that day happy. Pissed at my speaking and listening level of Chinese, but happy.

         “You’re getting stronger,” I think she said… my Spanish is as bad as my Mandarin. But I was growing. This is a good sign if you’ve ripped through the amount of blow that I had. The tiny coins were getting close to half-mast, and she was getting excited and moist because she knew she was saving me from bad thoughts. Gap 5/6 filled with the moment at hand—this beautiful Chilean wanting to help me come. It’s hard for me to look at people in the eyes when I’m coming off coke, but I glanced up to see her staring straight at me as she worked her hips to get what we both wanted—a completed job. I understood that I was lucky to have this girl. She wanted me to climax more than I could concentrate on wanting.

         Gap 6/7 chunked out the funk that brought the downhill we all try to avoid during this moment. The gunk between these teeth held the memory of the girl I should’ve married 10 years earlier. Enough said. Bad thought —7/8? Much better. Here nestled the entire day of drinking in backstreet cantinas and key-bumping coke in dirty bathrooms that had consumed my entire day until this current event. Two buddies and I had had an incredible fucking day. Walking bar to bar, snorting, drinking cuba libres, and generally rolling. At some point during the day, I remembered we wanted to go a taxi drive away to a great dive-bar near the city hospital and I told the taxi driver in Spanish that we had to get to the hospital immediately because one of my friends had a penis infection. Both of my mates miraculously managed to speak less Spanish than I did, but, somehow, they both understood what I’d said. The one that I said had the infection went nuts and started screaming at me from the backseat for a moment. The other guy, the taxi driver and I were laughing so hard he eventually gave up on the subject and sat silently until we got to the bar next to the hospital. Then he started the argument again.

         “How are you?” she asked, pulling out her full arsenal of English as she squirmed on the ungrowing half-mast (never think about your guy-buddies while trying to sex during the comedown) and I noticed the roosters outside my apartment barking their signal for sunrise. I needed to finish soon. She, like most Chileans, still lived with her mom, grandmother, 3 brothers and a sister and had to get home before the sun was completely up.

         8/9: I was halfway home (I never floss the bottoms, they’re less important). The gap in the middle of the top row is always the most difficult one to get through. The glory of having love and lost, with emphasis on the loss, … , … , all of everything else. Snowboarding during a full moon in the Rocky Mountains. Plugging a good friend’s hot girlfriend; passing judgment when someone else did the same because mine was a secret. This beautiful honey wanting me to come. The Chilean sunrise blazing through shitty drapes onto my face as a full night of powder zing was coming to an end.

         Gaps 9/16: I flipped her onto her back and pushed back inside. She had an incredible ass. I thought about the girl from Sri Lanka (9/10) I’d slept with two months before (yes, I’d cheated-- we both cheated on each other, though). There was zero filter on that Sri Lankan’s mouth. She said, in the filthiest way, the word ‘cunt’ at least 30 times (10/11)—few girls had ever said this word to me before, especially in such sexual context. I had no choice but to follow her indescribable instructions (11/12). It was awesome. And I had to finish soon—this was the best and most recent memory I had of blasting… (I really need to get over to Sri Lanka someday). 12/13 was pressure mounting and pleasure coming, the memory of a browner ass (13/14), a Sri Lankan ass (14/15), as I pulled out the gunk between my teeth and placed the globs onto the small of the Chilean’s back (15/16). She cocked her head to the right and smiled at the face behind her proudly, the/my face smiled back; she had done the impossible—helped a man finish an impossible job after multiple grams of cocaine. I smiled back and was more proud of her than myself.

        I walked her out of my apartment into a much brighter sun than my eyes wanted. Found a taxi, kissed, “Ciao”-ed, took the taxi’s license plate number (just in case), and waited for the ‘I’m home safely’ text message that officially got me off the hook of responsibility. 20 minutes later, got the text and was able to relax… slightly, the coke was still running madly through me. Crunched and slugged 3 blue football-Xanax in a shot of cheap rum and got into a wet bed.

        I was out of floss. Fortunately, as I said before, I never floss the bottom teeth anyhow. I jacked off and came again within 5 minutes. Sleep, however, seemed to be on hiatus; probably, side-by-side with my friend’s girlfriend, it was working for a penny an hour in some Chinese sweatshop deep in the hills of Arkansas… (teeth 17 to 32).

image by rev. phyllis nugent


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