The apartment is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sticky sound of my own breathing. I can still smell the bar on my clothes—the stale beer, the cloying sweetness of spilled cocktails, the faint, sharp tang of whatever cheap perfume the girl next to me was wearing. It’s a smell of failure, of near-misses and half-hearted conversations that went nowhere.
My head is a dull, throbbing drum from the tequila. I stumble through the dark living room, kicking off my shoes and shedding my jacket like a second skin I can't wait to be rid of. The bed calls, but not for sleep. Not yet.
I lie back on the cool sheets, fully clothed for a moment, just staring at the ceiling. My mind replays the night's highlight reel, and it’s pathetic. A brush of fingers against my own when reaching for my drink. A shared laugh with a stranger whose name I already forgot. The way the low lights caught the curve of someone’s neck across the room. It’s all scraps, nothing substantial. Just enough to stoke a fire that has nowhere else to go.
My hand drifts down, past the button of my jeans, the fabric rough against my skin. I’m not thinking about a person, not really. I’m thinking about the *idea* of a person. The phantom warmth of a body that was never there. The imagined weight of a hand on my thigh. I close my eyes and I’m back in that noisy, crowded room, but in my head, the noise fades and it’s just me and the shadow of a possibility.
The rhythm is familiar, a comfort. It’s a sad, desperate kind of comfort, but it’s all I have right now. My grip tightens, my strokes becoming more deliberate, more urgent. The fantasy shifts, becomes more explicit. It’s not about connection anymore; it’s about release. About chasing away the loneliness with a sharp, physical shock. The tequila-fueled thoughts are loud and crude, a pornographic script in my head starring a faceless, willing partner who wants all the things I couldn't ask for tonight.
I can feel it building, a pressure that pushes out every other thought. The bar, the rejection, the loneliness—it all dissolves into a single, white-hot point of focus. My breath hitches, my body tenses, and then it crashes over me. A shuddering, empty wave that leaves me gasping in the dark.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing. Just the sound of my own heartbeat and the damp spot on my jeans. And then, the silence rushes back in, heavier than before. The loneliness returns, but now it’s different. It’s cleaner, more settled. The desperate edge is gone, replaced by a quiet, hollow ache.
I finally get up to clean myself off, my movements slow and heavy. The smell of the bar is still on my shirt, a reminder of the night I couldn't make happen. And this, this act in the dark, is the confession of what I did instead.
My head is a dull, throbbing drum from the tequila. I stumble through the dark living room, kicking off my shoes and shedding my jacket like a second skin I can't wait to be rid of. The bed calls, but not for sleep. Not yet.
I lie back on the cool sheets, fully clothed for a moment, just staring at the ceiling. My mind replays the night's highlight reel, and it’s pathetic. A brush of fingers against my own when reaching for my drink. A shared laugh with a stranger whose name I already forgot. The way the low lights caught the curve of someone’s neck across the room. It’s all scraps, nothing substantial. Just enough to stoke a fire that has nowhere else to go.
My hand drifts down, past the button of my jeans, the fabric rough against my skin. I’m not thinking about a person, not really. I’m thinking about the *idea* of a person. The phantom warmth of a body that was never there. The imagined weight of a hand on my thigh. I close my eyes and I’m back in that noisy, crowded room, but in my head, the noise fades and it’s just me and the shadow of a possibility.
The rhythm is familiar, a comfort. It’s a sad, desperate kind of comfort, but it’s all I have right now. My grip tightens, my strokes becoming more deliberate, more urgent. The fantasy shifts, becomes more explicit. It’s not about connection anymore; it’s about release. About chasing away the loneliness with a sharp, physical shock. The tequila-fueled thoughts are loud and crude, a pornographic script in my head starring a faceless, willing partner who wants all the things I couldn't ask for tonight.
I can feel it building, a pressure that pushes out every other thought. The bar, the rejection, the loneliness—it all dissolves into a single, white-hot point of focus. My breath hitches, my body tenses, and then it crashes over me. A shuddering, empty wave that leaves me gasping in the dark.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing. Just the sound of my own heartbeat and the damp spot on my jeans. And then, the silence rushes back in, heavier than before. The loneliness returns, but now it’s different. It’s cleaner, more settled. The desperate edge is gone, replaced by a quiet, hollow ache.
I finally get up to clean myself off, my movements slow and heavy. The smell of the bar is still on my shirt, a reminder of the night I couldn't make happen. And this, this act in the dark, is the confession of what I did instead.
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SinParty
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