Sitting in an airport is an exercise in surrealism.  A hundred places to get on and off.  Ladies and gentlemen, step right up into the airplane you never see.  Spend hours cramped in a tin can with a hundred strangers pretending not to see each other, jostling past you and nervously smiling when they can’t hold their piss anymore.  Exit into the terminal that looks just like the one you left.  Bam! You’re somewhere else in the world, and this somewhere else is just as flat and grey and stinking of 15 year old stale cigarettes and Lysol as your life was before you got here.  You haven’t escaped anything.  You’re still you.

I looked him right in the eye and told him to quit bullshitting me.  That it wasn’t necessary to impress me because I didn’t really give a shit about the truth but that sitting through the lies was getting tedious.  He didn’t believe me – they never do.  The stories just got wilder.  Men always think that they need to feed you a line to get you in to bed, but what do they know?  Sometimes I just want to fuck and pretend everything is okay for a day or three.  You’d think that we could come to an accord on this.  But there’s been too many years of listening to their buddies and reading bullshit news articles about how to deal with chicks, all written by brainless mongoloids who’ve probably never seen a real woman in their life.  Those trophy fucks the money brings in?  Those aren’t women, those are fucktoys you have to feed.  Except fucktoys don’t lie to you.  They can’t even get that much right.

How far do I want to push it?  He’s insistent on playing this game and won’t even respect that I’m not interested and just want to get down to business.  It’s as ingrained into him as a mating dance is for some beast in the wild.  I’d act like I believe him just to get somewhere with this since I’m already here but something in my pride rises up and hisses like a snake at the idea.  You can lie to me but you can’t walk away thinking I bought it.  I’ll let you come on my back but I’ll never let you believe that you had me fooled.  I’m in this for the same thing as him, but my ego isn’t as crippled.  I’m not here to talk and I have no interest in loving him and he just can’t wrap his head around it.

I figure I’ll just be quiet, at first.  Let him tire himself out, the same way you do with stupid children and dogs with too much energy.  But damn, this fucker has staying power in all the wrong ways cuz this has been going on for hours.  I pour myself a drink and listen to him ramble.  He doesn’t notice I’ve gone through half the bottle but I have and now the crippled lines he’s trying to spit are easier to bear because I’m overheated and I’m feeling a bit friendly and you know, he really is kinda nice to look at.  Suddenly the game is fun and I make a joke of rearranging his own words and repeating them back to him, trying to keep a straight face.  He melts.  He knows I understand him.  He knows I feel the same.  He feels how connected we are.  Everything I say seems familiar somehow, like we’ve known each other for years.  He manages to miss the fact that I’m simply parroting him and for a moment I even feel a little twinge of guilt in my gut or maybe that’s the vodka and the moment passes and I’m back to not caring and that predatory instinct takes over, thinning my eyes and widening my smile.

He’s terrified of me now.  He thought he had in all the hooks but he’s feeling out of his depth.  It’s the keenest observation he’s had all night outside of my cleavage and he does his best to ignore it.  Two brain cells are fucking in his head but he’s struggling to down out the noise with his cock and for once it’s not working.  His eyes have gone all soft and mushy and he looks years younger than he is.  The only thing he has the balls left to do is reach out and touch my hair, gently, like I’ll vanish like ash if he disturbs the moment.  He really needn’t have worried – I’m on my game now.  I lean forward and kiss him, quickly, pressing my face against his.  His eyes close and he sucks in his breath hard like he’s never kissed a girl before.  His hands are shaking.  They’re still in my hair.  I grab his wrists and move his hands onto my tits and he shudders and relaxes into me, crushes me, and I know he’s mine.

Funny how that exact same move has worked the exact same way since high school.

Afterward, I roll off the bed in a smooth movement and grab my clothes.  He’s too busy huffing and staring at the ceiling to notice at first.  Then he asks me what I’m doing, and I say I’m getting dressed.  He asks me why.  I look down at him and say – I think you’re done for awhile, so I’m going to get something to eat.  Hey, he says, hey hey, no, come back to bed, what’s wrong?  Did I hurt you?  I unsuccessfully attempt to stifle a snort.  They always think they’ve hurt you.  Because their manliness could do nothing else, right?  They spend all that effort crafting their bullshit, then fall for it themselves like dead weights.  There’s a kind of ironic justice in that I enjoy.

Hey.  I wasn’t in it to play you, not really.  In fact, I was the honest one of the two of us.  Don’t blame me because you fell in love with your own horror show.  It’s not my fault that I’m better at delivering your lines than you are.  Do you want something to eat or not?

I’ve got another night left here.  It’ll be awkward until I’ve got a drink in me again, and then I’ll warm up and he’ll fall for the same tired shit I said tonight because it’s what he’s got himself believing that he wants.  And when I put my clothes back on and wipe the smile off my face, that wounded look will return.  Later on he’ll call me and try to understand why I “backed off” when I was never really there.  He’ll learn nothing.  He’ll tell stories about me for years.  I feel sorry for his girlfriend at home, whatever her name was.

It’s really not my problem.

So do you want something or not?

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this account is entirely fictional.