Technicolor Pulp by Arty Nelson

entirely.”
    Paradise is over. I’ve played out my last trump card… Whatever that means. Once again, I’verevealed myself for the misguided power tool that I am. For like an hour, I smooth and I lie. I even outright beg for several
     long stints but nothing can take away the smelly dead fishes of words that I puked out onto the floor.
    “I mean… I guess I gotta say that the herpes thing is like my Achilles’ fucking heel and… I just didn’t catch your whole british
     comedic approach thing. I thought you meant it. You caught me way off guard.”
    “I understand, Jimi… But why did you call me names and say things like I’m some kind of monied flooze? I’ve never been like
     that with you.”
    “You haven’t… I don’t know… It was just what came out in the rage… I didn’t really mean it,” I plead.
    Probably out of exhaustion, she lets up. We’re both sobered up by now, and back down on the planet from our martini-induced
     tirade. I’d have to say that my approach on this very evening will always be something that I consider to be a HUGE MISTAKE.
    I blew it. Diane loved me because I got this kind of high-tech pseudo-romantic sort of devil-may-care attitude, and now it’s
     over. My emotions’ not being in sync with my little, intense, rambling guy kind of vagabond chooch rebel rap, and it’s over.
     I’ve become just another neurotic loser with a flair for the secondhand leathery facade. Looking for a piece of pussy pie
     and reading it all wrong. Who knows, maybe it added to the intrigue? I don’t know anything anymore. Women are more of aknow anything anymore. Women are more of a mystery to me than world hunger.
    I go for broke. I grab Diane and plant one on her roughly, jamming my tongue between her struggling lips. She pulls away at
     first but I stay right with her, and she finally settles down at the end of my tongue. Her lips are soft and warm like fruity
     roasted marshmallows. I wanna bite them… And I do. Her tongue tastes of white wine. I suck on it. I nibble on the fleshy rinds
     of her lips. She squirms, still fighting ever so slightly, but I know I’m in for a run on the bush. I can get it, it’s all
     about just waiting ‘til the time is ripe. She wants me, she’s trembling against me like a scared puppy that doesn’t want to
     be kicked again but stays… For the same brand of loving and affection. I look past her out the window. I count the dull yellow
     lamps along the street and all the other row houses stacked along the other side of the street. Red Brick Wombs in the Middle
     of the Chaos. I feel comfortable in this guy, William’s flat. It makes me wanna be rich… And powerful.
    “I like this house, Diane… I like this world. It makes me wanna be famous.”
    “There aren’t any famous people here… These people are REALLY rich. It’s a different world. There’s too much at stake.”
    I don’t really know what she means, but with her hand down along the shaft of my penis, she’s got my complete and utter attention.
     Anything is OK, I’m just a kid from Pittsburgh about to be knee-deepinto some of the finest british LASS I’ve ever known or seen. I haven’t worked in a month or two… My hair looks OK… Yeah…
     I know exactly what she means… I think… I just can’t quite remember what the hell she said or what we were talking about…
     Oh yeah… Money… I’m lost in a fantasy… I’m skipping down the streets of my dreams… The dialogue is unimportant… The words
     just a clever little veil… A decoy away from… The thoughts… And the feelings… That leave us soaked in sweat… And crying… The
     real shit goes like… In a fucking song or something… It’s not sublime… Like… I rip her clothes off with no regard whatsoever
     for high fashion… I see her pussy and I go right for it… It’s so blond that it looks almost hairless in the soft light… Smooth
     and fresh… Young… I don’t fumble… I’m right there… Right