too many, lose their tiny minds, and then become total assholes around women. I know I’m not one to judge – I’ve done all kinds of shit, but I’ve never messed with a woman like that, not ever, and I can’t stand the kids who won’t take their hands off a woman even after she says no. They can’t all defend themselves like Francisca, so I come to their defence, and usually all it takes is one look at me to make a kid shit bricks in his designer jeans.
Sure, work sucks. I don’t get to go home before four in the morning and I don’t even have the cash to buy a car yet. If I had one, I wouldn’t be able to drive it anyway because they also took my licence. So I walk, whatever the weather. I like walking. After four years of small spaces it’s refreshing to move. I breathe all the air I want, and even if the neighbourhood is a sewer and a bore, it smells like roses and the beach compared to where I’ve just come from.
I’ve moved into my new home, if you can even call it that. It’s just a shack on the top floor of a shitty building, but if I fix it up a little it’ll be decent enough. I’m good with tools; I can fix things. Meanwhile, it has a skylight, and while I fall asleep I can look up at the stars. It’s not about being romantic – even that word makes me sick – it’s about a simple physical need. After four years of staring at a concrete roof where nothing ever changed besides the damp spots and the spiders, I need to look at as many things as possible. I admit I chose this place for the skylight.
It has all I need: a bed, a bathroom, a kitchen. The ceilings are low, and in one place I have to stoop so I don’t damage myself or the ceiling. I’ll put a punch bag in the corner. I like kicking and punching – I do it until I can feel my muscles melt like hot liquorice. In the meantime, I’ve been doing push-ups: one hundred, three hundred, five hundred. Then I go out and run miles under the open sky, and then finally I get ready. I have a shower and put on the black shirt, pants and leather jacket the club gave me – and I go to work.
It’s packed every night, but on weekends it’s impossible. Sometimes I have to throw people out. Sometimes a girl will hit on me, but at work I can’t reciprocate, so then I’ll try to get away and we’ll do it in her beautiful car. Sometimes I don’t even know what they look like. In the darkness they all look cool, and then later, after hours of smoking and sweating, they turn out to be just average, but for a quickie they’re fine. If they’re drunk, on the other hand, then I let them go, even if they’re gorgeous. Zombies are not my thing.
Francisca would understand – she never cared when I fucked other women. She’d just say, ‘Don’t worry, baby, it’s just your cock that’s having fun, not you.’
And then, around dawn, I go home.
Fortunately, the uniform the club gave me also includes a flashlight, otherwise I’d never be able to find my way back up the stairs to my apartment.
This particular night, I climb a few flights and hear a gasp and a moan.
I run faster and find myself in front of a girl. Never seen her before. She’s scared. She has the face of a woman getting strangled, but there’s no one around – she’s all alone, her keys are on the floor, she can’t see a thing and if she’s not crying yet, she’s just about to. She’s small and very thin, with short hair. She’s panting. I wait for her to go inside but she’s afraid of me. I can’t blame her, I’m a scary kinda guy, and even scarier if you know me – but I’m not mean to women, I repeat. If I’m not sure they really want me, I don’t touch women and I keep my zipper closed. But this one? I wouldn’t touch her if she knelt down and begged me. I have my standards. If it weren’t for her tolerable legs that I’d advise her not to shove under men’s noses if she wants to make it home