Will Work for Drugs by Lydia Lunch

Author:Lydia Lunch [Lunch, Lydia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Non-Fiction, ebook
ISBN: 9781933354736
Google: cl4hAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1933354739
Barnesnoble: 1933354739
Goodreads: 6320227
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2009-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

Johnny crawls into bed bloody and beer-stained. He’s cut himself again. I pretend I’m still sleeping. He feels closer to me, safer, he relaxes when I’m half dead. He cradles into my coma. It calms him down, slows his blood. He presses himself against me. His thick leather belt sweats against my back. He buries his face in my hair. Inhales slowly. Supping on my dusky aroma, a dirty-white honeysuckle stained with night’s runoff. I am the oxygen he feeds upon. A cleansing hallucinogen, the undercurrent of musky heat radiates life into his open mouth. When he’s with me he can breathe again.

I feel his excitement building. The air catches fire in his dry cottony throat. He swallows, mouths, I want so bad to love you like you pretend to love me. I tremble. Not moving. Frozen like a still frame cracked and trapped inside a broken movie projector.

I want so bad to lash out, thrash against him, scream his name. Pound his temples. Smash him in the face. Shoot him in the fucking head. Stab his lower lip, his arms, his legs, his back and chest, cut him into a thousand crimson ribbons so that he would, for that one moment, truly comprehend just how much I do love him. How badly I want him, how needy I really am. How hungry. How incredibly moist.

Tucking himself into me, a fleshy surround. I submit to his filthy electric force field and fold myself under him. Into him. My body seems to dissolve, shrink, condense, and unfold into a small pocket, hollow pillow, pussy willow soft, which he blankets in dusty skin. The 147 self-inflicted scars on his chest and arms are cool pink fingers which mouth my surrender. I have no resistance left, not an ounce, once they press up against me. Skin sliced to the bone. Brilliant. Because it defines so well the pain we both share, but can never, either of us, ever admit to.

Johnny doesn’t start violent, but I know that’s how he’ll finish me off. Finish himself off. He knows I want him to hurt me. I need to be hurt. Need to be reminded how much he loves me. Loves me enough to hurt me even though he hates me for wanting it. Hates me for what I do to him, make him do to me. Hates me because he needs to hurt himself too, and now I am the most available tool.

But first, his soft wet lips, sweeter even than a virgin’s pouting mound, surprise the back of my neck. Disappear into collar bones. Crawl up into my hair. He inhales, sucking in a fistful of auburn locks. His tenderness is made so much more desperate, delicious, cruel, by where I know he’ll take me. How he’ll take me. How far he’ll push it. How far he needs to go.

He can’t resist much longer. If I exhale a certain amount of breath … when my rib cage rises and falls into the

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