Black Hole by Bucky Sinister Page A

skirt with no panties and asking you what you think, and you’re still afraid to make a move, frozen from a childhood of abuse and rejection. You can’t say anything, and she laughs. Take it out, she says. She can see you’re hard, you still harbor fear that she’s going to laugh at it, but you take it out because that’s what you’re told to do. Instead of laughing, she hovers closer and closer, till she slides right on top of your cock and she’s grinding you. A drop of sweat runs off her face and lands in your mouth. You don’t want to come right away, but you do, a flush of heat ripping through your neck, you close your eyes . . .
    You open your eyes. See the scars. Living room. Liza’s here. Fucking Liza on the floor. Not a fantasy anymore.
    Where am I?
    What? Jesus, Chuck. You’re in my living room.
    I was just taking a shit in Eric’s bathroom.
    WHAT are you talking about? Shut up and keep fucking.
    No, I was somewhere else.
    You’re high. Or not high enough. Here, take another hit.
    She hands me the marble in a pipe and I hit it. I inhale and hold.

    Shower water’s hitting me.
    I’m in Eric’s bathroom.
    Fuck, that felt real.
    I look over. The bowl is disgustingly full. I reach out and flush.
    There’s nothing in this shower except for the peppermint Dr. Bronner’s. I guess it’ll have to do. I might stink too much for this. I need something stronger. Pine-Sol. Something.
    I get out of the shower. Eric’s waiting for me.
    Take these sweats, this shirt, and these socks. I found your shoes and your jacket. Your shirt’s gone somewhere. And your socks, well, fuck them. Totally gross. Basically you did a striptease at Tartine while you were blacking out.
    Fucking hilarious.
    Not really. This isn’t the old Mission. This Mission belongs to the techies.
    Bullshit.
    Face it. They’re here. They have money. That’s how this country works.
    Fuck it. I’m leaving anyway.
    Listen. This isn’t twenty years ago. You can’t get away with anything you want anymore. You can’t have a freakout like this. Dude, if I didn’t live upstairs, you would’ve been arrested. And bro, you had a gun in your jacket, and god knows what in your system. They could’ve 5150’d you. Easily.
    I know. Is my stash still there?
    Fuck, really? That’s what you’re concerned about? Are you listening to me at all?
    Christ, I just . . . is my stash still there?
    No. Keys. And a little gun.
    It’s a Raven.
    I don’t care. Fuck. Dude, get your shit together, and get out of here.
    Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .
    But you did. I’m trying to help you, and it’s like you’re in a different god damned world.
    Sorry . . .
    I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry for a lot of things. But it’s not the good ol’ days anymore, and frankly, I’m not sure that they even were good, ever. But one thing I know is that we’re not twenty-one anymore. It’s okay to be in our forties. We just have to act like it.
    Okay, I’m leaving.
    I get my things and wander instinctively toward the front door. As I open the door, Eric stops me and hands me a flyer. Some warehouse party off Third Street.
    Show up. I’ll put you on the list.
    Thanks. I’ll get these sweats back . . .
    No worries, dude, he says, waving me off.
    I lope down the steps and wander away, in the opposite direction of Tartine.
    Where my van should be, it isn’t. My mind shuffles. Did I move it? Did I drive it somewhere in a blackout? I don’t remember, but hell, that doesn’t mean a damn thing. Doesn’t mean I did or didn’t.
    You looking for your van?
    The voice startles me.
    Over here.
    A pile of garbage sticks an arm out and waves.
    Yeah. Did you see what happened to it?
    Got towed.
    Towed?
    Towed.
    Ah, for the love of fuck.
    Hey, got a quarter?
    No. Especially not now.
    Why?
    You know why. They towed my