A Bukowski Dream.

A Bukowski Dream.

She walked into my apartment, smelling of fresh lavender, sweat and vodka. She walked funny, and I wondered if it was last night’s lovemaking session with her man. Oh, I’m not her man. I’m just someone she met at a tea stall and happened to like to enjoy talking to.

I never wish to be her man. She only likes men with big dicks, she told me. I said okay. So, we would never fuck. But my fingers are longer and my hands are smooth, so she sometimes lets me put my fingers into her vagina.

She must have drank a lot last night, why else would she just lay on my bed and descent into a deep slumber. I watched her sleep as I finished my leftover food from last night. Her hair was tied in a messy bun and she was snoring loudly, as if she didn’t care anymore. But she had once told me that her boyfriend doesn’t like her snoring, so she would sometimes knock on my door at inhuman hours and just fall on my bed and sleep for hours. Often times, she would take my finger and stick it into her sticky vagina, still filled with her boyfriend’s semen. Sometimes I smelled my fingers afterwards, just to gauge why she fell in love with him.

She woke up hours later, I made her the coffee that she likes, extra dark and bitter. She still smelled faintly of Vodka, but coffee did seem to lift her spirits. She smiled, kissed my fingers and stuck them into her vagina.

This time, my fingers didn’t find even a drop of semen. I fingered her for an hour. Her moans, reeked of more coffee than vodka.

Her eyes teared up and she had three orgasms in a gap of 10 minutes.

My shoulder ached.

She got up and walked out of my apartment without uttering a word. A thank you would have been nice, I thought.

I shut the door and smelled my finger. It smelled of her tears.

I wonder what transpired last night between her and the boyfriend.