La Niña
or like an animal
Her name is Nina. Her cheeks are plump and her complexion like skin cream, her eyes dark and gone squinty when she laughs, her lips a smirking apple. She has hair the texture of brown yarn and the color of sun-soaked iron, she has skin that smells like powder whenever I inhale, and she fucks like a rabid chainsaw. My Nina.
"You wanna share, Doors, you wanna?" I always tell her yes, be it a cigarette or an oreo half or a blanket on a cold night. I loved finding an imprint of her lips on a smoke, a taste of crumbly black sweetness in her mouth, or something wet and fleshy waiting for me under an itchy sheet.
*
"You're the sweetest little thing, Doors, you are," she says, whenever she can, and I've never seen her not smile when she says my name. She takes pride in how strange it is, I suppose, her strange, sweet little Doors. The print on my birth certificate is Isadora, shortened to Dora when I was younger, and shortened further to Doors when my mother saw potential in me. That girl's gonna open a lot of doors for this family, yes she is, she used to remark proudly to the neighbors.
So far I'd opened a window: when I found Nina, or rather, when Nina found me. One accomplishment to parade on my mother's deathbed instead of the keys of conquered doors she expected of me. Oh, well.
"I'm gonna love you 'til they take you away, Doors, I am," she teases, four years younger than me and far more sure of her place in the world. We met while it was still illegal for me to fuck her, but that didn't stop her from fucking me.
*
"I think you peed, Doors, I think..." Nina trails off uncertainly, fingers pulling out of me with a slick pop that made me wince, wiping the moisture on her thigh. She kneels up, and I prop up on both elbows to look, although I had already felt the mattress go damp before that. My face flushes a deeper shade than the area around my bruised nipples.
She laughs, taking the clamps off gently, swirling each nub under her tongue before moving up to soothe my mouth instead.
"It's okay, honey," she reassures, somewhat amused, her kisses criminally sweet. "Kinky, honey."
*
She's eating pineapple slices out of a can. She offers to share, and I long to lick the juice that leaks from the corner of her mouth, but looking at pineapples - or anything yellow and liquid, really - embarrasses me.
"You know," in between chews, "you know, this didn't start until we started using the handcuffs."
It isn't really that, but I don't want to point it out yet. "Yeah, maybe." It isn't the handcuffs, or the whip, or the dirty words she says. But I didn't wanna tell her, not yet.
*
"God, yeah, Doors, yeah." Her own hands are in her hair while I eat her out, mouth forced open by a wide and fleshy pleasure, breasts heaving in time with her breaths. The sight of her drives me wild, and I continue, nose buried in her curls and her folds, letting the smell of her turn me into a beast.
Nina shudders while I'm kissing into her, thighs held down by my palms; I can feel her coming, vibrating. Afterwards she beckons me to lay beside her, and we tangle until light seeps into the room and lets us see the dust particles in the air.
I don't leak, that night, or any other night when it's me on her, fucking her like I was polishing porcelain instead of flinging it to the wall and stomping on its remains on the floor, like she sometimes asks.
*
"You wet the bed again, Doors, you did." She doesn't even have the energy to sigh, nor I to blush. It's passed its novelty; it is no longer exciting or arousing or even delightfully human. It is simply inconvenient, and admittedly, disgusting.
We are reduced to changing the sheets daily, most of them stained in the middle, and the worst is when a friend of Nina's comes over and asks if we had any plans of toilet-training our cat. Needless to say, we didn't have a cat.
"Why do you do this, Doors, why?" she demands of me, nose and eyes wrinkled at the edges like even the sight of me is putrid.
"Because you remind me of my mother," I reply, quietly. "That's why." And I know, almost immediately, that it wasn't the right thing to say.
*
Nina knows about my mother. Far more than most people and far less than what I kept to myself. The doors story is an interesting tidbit; compelling, and cruel, but not too tragic. When it's too tragic people do the metaphorical alternative to putting your hands over your ears and going 'la la la.' Nobody wants to hear a sad story. It ruins a day as much as it ruins lives.
It ruined my mother's life when my dad died, and she didn't take too kindly to it. She replaced her friends with alcohol, our family photos with food stamps. She would chase me around the house and threaten me with a knife, and when she'd cornered me she'd drop the knife and beat me with her fists. We both bled.
"Why can't you open any damn doors, you stupid girl?" she'd scream, and her eyes only held sorrow, not blame.
But every night, when I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, I wetted the bed.
*
I do not do it because of Nina's toys, or Nina's moans, or Nina's fantasies. She had no way of knowing that the spot on my arm she loved to mark, where her fingertips so carefully fit, were only indented because of my mother's old bruises. She is angry, and she has a right to be. Everytime she pushed me to the couch to rut against reminded me of everytime my mother threw me against the door in fits of rage that made me into a snot-nosed, terror-hearted, bladder-emptying mess.
"You're the most fucked up little thing, Doors, you are." Nina's eyes are the talons of some carnivorous bird that digs into my stomach, ripping out my insides to feed to its young. She made me feel so alive, and now she makes me want to die.
I hate myself, I think, as she slams the door behind her.
*
Nina does not return to the apartment. I do not know why I ever expected her to. Love is not static, after all, and she has probably found some other pretty thing whose lips - both kinds - are welcoming of her ministrations. The girl fucks like a chainsaw, after all.
I still hate myself, of course, but not enough to keep me from getting off. When my limbs become languid and Nina's dildo smells like sex and I can see the dust particles in the air, I close my eyes and release, musing about turning the bathroom into a walk-in closet like the ones on Cribs. I have no more need for it.
I sit up and sniff and think about getting a cat. Maybe I should name it Nina.
"You wanna share, Doors, you wanna?" I always tell her yes, be it a cigarette or an oreo half or a blanket on a cold night. I loved finding an imprint of her lips on a smoke, a taste of crumbly black sweetness in her mouth, or something wet and fleshy waiting for me under an itchy sheet.
*
"You're the sweetest little thing, Doors, you are," she says, whenever she can, and I've never seen her not smile when she says my name. She takes pride in how strange it is, I suppose, her strange, sweet little Doors. The print on my birth certificate is Isadora, shortened to Dora when I was younger, and shortened further to Doors when my mother saw potential in me. That girl's gonna open a lot of doors for this family, yes she is, she used to remark proudly to the neighbors.
So far I'd opened a window: when I found Nina, or rather, when Nina found me. One accomplishment to parade on my mother's deathbed instead of the keys of conquered doors she expected of me. Oh, well.
"I'm gonna love you 'til they take you away, Doors, I am," she teases, four years younger than me and far more sure of her place in the world. We met while it was still illegal for me to fuck her, but that didn't stop her from fucking me.
*
"I think you peed, Doors, I think..." Nina trails off uncertainly, fingers pulling out of me with a slick pop that made me wince, wiping the moisture on her thigh. She kneels up, and I prop up on both elbows to look, although I had already felt the mattress go damp before that. My face flushes a deeper shade than the area around my bruised nipples.
She laughs, taking the clamps off gently, swirling each nub under her tongue before moving up to soothe my mouth instead.
"It's okay, honey," she reassures, somewhat amused, her kisses criminally sweet. "Kinky, honey."
*
She's eating pineapple slices out of a can. She offers to share, and I long to lick the juice that leaks from the corner of her mouth, but looking at pineapples - or anything yellow and liquid, really - embarrasses me.
"You know," in between chews, "you know, this didn't start until we started using the handcuffs."
It isn't really that, but I don't want to point it out yet. "Yeah, maybe." It isn't the handcuffs, or the whip, or the dirty words she says. But I didn't wanna tell her, not yet.
*
"God, yeah, Doors, yeah." Her own hands are in her hair while I eat her out, mouth forced open by a wide and fleshy pleasure, breasts heaving in time with her breaths. The sight of her drives me wild, and I continue, nose buried in her curls and her folds, letting the smell of her turn me into a beast.
Nina shudders while I'm kissing into her, thighs held down by my palms; I can feel her coming, vibrating. Afterwards she beckons me to lay beside her, and we tangle until light seeps into the room and lets us see the dust particles in the air.
I don't leak, that night, or any other night when it's me on her, fucking her like I was polishing porcelain instead of flinging it to the wall and stomping on its remains on the floor, like she sometimes asks.
*
"You wet the bed again, Doors, you did." She doesn't even have the energy to sigh, nor I to blush. It's passed its novelty; it is no longer exciting or arousing or even delightfully human. It is simply inconvenient, and admittedly, disgusting.
We are reduced to changing the sheets daily, most of them stained in the middle, and the worst is when a friend of Nina's comes over and asks if we had any plans of toilet-training our cat. Needless to say, we didn't have a cat.
"Why do you do this, Doors, why?" she demands of me, nose and eyes wrinkled at the edges like even the sight of me is putrid.
"Because you remind me of my mother," I reply, quietly. "That's why." And I know, almost immediately, that it wasn't the right thing to say.
*
Nina knows about my mother. Far more than most people and far less than what I kept to myself. The doors story is an interesting tidbit; compelling, and cruel, but not too tragic. When it's too tragic people do the metaphorical alternative to putting your hands over your ears and going 'la la la.' Nobody wants to hear a sad story. It ruins a day as much as it ruins lives.
It ruined my mother's life when my dad died, and she didn't take too kindly to it. She replaced her friends with alcohol, our family photos with food stamps. She would chase me around the house and threaten me with a knife, and when she'd cornered me she'd drop the knife and beat me with her fists. We both bled.
"Why can't you open any damn doors, you stupid girl?" she'd scream, and her eyes only held sorrow, not blame.
But every night, when I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, I wetted the bed.
*
I do not do it because of Nina's toys, or Nina's moans, or Nina's fantasies. She had no way of knowing that the spot on my arm she loved to mark, where her fingertips so carefully fit, were only indented because of my mother's old bruises. She is angry, and she has a right to be. Everytime she pushed me to the couch to rut against reminded me of everytime my mother threw me against the door in fits of rage that made me into a snot-nosed, terror-hearted, bladder-emptying mess.
"You're the most fucked up little thing, Doors, you are." Nina's eyes are the talons of some carnivorous bird that digs into my stomach, ripping out my insides to feed to its young. She made me feel so alive, and now she makes me want to die.
I hate myself, I think, as she slams the door behind her.
*
Nina does not return to the apartment. I do not know why I ever expected her to. Love is not static, after all, and she has probably found some other pretty thing whose lips - both kinds - are welcoming of her ministrations. The girl fucks like a chainsaw, after all.
I still hate myself, of course, but not enough to keep me from getting off. When my limbs become languid and Nina's dildo smells like sex and I can see the dust particles in the air, I close my eyes and release, musing about turning the bathroom into a walk-in closet like the ones on Cribs. I have no more need for it.
I sit up and sniff and think about getting a cat. Maybe I should name it Nina.