Status: Discontinued

Have Kids, Then We'll Talk

Here Will Lie the Body of Aiden Way

I won’t lie and say I am innocent. In fact, the mere idea of I, Aiden Way, being anything but a whore is laughable. But that isn’t entirely my fault, you know. If men and women would just stop throwing themselves at me, maybe I could revert to the good little boy mommy and daddy attempted to bring up in this unforgiving world. It’s just that…I am so god damn irresistible sometimes, that these hot blooded creatures can’t control themselves. I forgive them for their eagerness to bed me. I will forgive them because they deserve that much- considering I just leave them tangled up in white sheets stained with sin once the blaring red sun rises over the metallic buildings of New York. Leave them. Never call them. These nameless, faceless, beings. Soulless creatures looking for an ounce of intimacy because they are so dead on the inside any cock will do. It never works. They still go home the same mindless zombie looking for its next meal. Pathetic.

And I believe in my heart that was exactly the reason why I didn’t find myself running from the comfort of this stranger’s bed once daylight pulled me from my slumber. For the being who laid next to me was anything but a zombie. No. I could taste it the night before, the passion that laid wasting deep inside that size zero body. I could sense the need for freedom, the need for compassion, love, and desire that ran deeper than just superficial sex. Oh, she wanted more than just sex. She wanted sex because she was drunk enough not to give a fuck- just get a fuck. But at the same time, I could almost feel as if this wasn’t something she did often- bedding strangers like eating candy. And these thoughts kept me stationary. And her look kept me from…wanting to move.

I won’t say she is beautiful. Nah. Charlie is beautiful. Charlie is timeless beauty- classical. Her face is smooth- flawless. Despite her sleepless drunken nights. And Charlie’s hair shines without sunlight; the deep brown strands falling over her breasts in soft waves. And Charlie…Charlie never needed makeup, though she puts it on to cover up imaginary flaws only she could see. And eyes…eyes like pools of ocean clear water that I could get lost in…for days.

This girl…was no Charlie.

She was cute in a conventional way. New pretty. Scene pretty. With smudged eye liner on her face, and her lipstick dull and as lifeless as her lips. And she was…skinny at least. Boney. And her hair was boring straight, with dull highlights, and she definitely needed makeup. She looked good. Not spectacular. She was a forgotten face. Just there. Barely there.

Oh, but there was something just about her that made her seem beautiful. And it could have been that standoffish attitude, or how easy she was willing to give in to me. Or the sense of reluctance I often felt as I worshipped her body. Or maybe it was because she was the daughter of Ryan Fucking Ross- and some may know I am a big fan of his. I didn’t know.

I didn’t know anything, and all I knew was I wasn’t going to move anytime soon. She would wake and find me. That awkwardness would slowly appear in her dull eyes, and she will probably try to run. But I will catch her and prevent her from moving- because she seems like fun for now. She’s a good fuck with something those other zombies don’t have. What, I don’t know. Maybe that’s part of the mystery of her.

Now, I know what you are thinking. There’s a special place in Hell for Aiden Donald Way.

I am completely inclined to believe you. And how could I not?

I am the serpent sent to tempt Eve into sin. The incubus that ravages her body while she sleeps. Uncaring. No regrets. No sympathy. And why should I give her…them…any of them the slightest bit of sympathy. Stupid creatures, women are. Centuries upon centuries of fighting for equal rights, that in the end only bred sluts and whores that plaster their naked bodies on computer screens for the slightest bit of attention.

Oh those women who fought for suffrage must be blowing their brains out in their graves.

I smirk at this thought. I glance at the Sleeping Mediocre Beauty next to me. I smirk and think this was the result of years of torture under men.

I place a cigarette between my lips. Light it up with a flame that dances through my breath.

And I will look back on this moment in the not so distant future, and remember it as the day I took that step off the cliff. The rest of my story will be how I plummet to my death.
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There comes a time when every writer will forget how to write.