Tuesday, January 29, 2013

I Don't Really Have A Plan A

I Don’t Really Have a Plan A
by Kat Lewin

The morning after, I drive to the drugstore still sweaty and ask for the box of emergency babykiller—generic? she asks; whatever’s cheap—then swallow the first dose with a can of flat ginger ale from beside the bed. The box is pink, in case you forgot it is for a woman. At the top of my trash can, a condom shredded like a sick ’80s guitar solo.

Twelve hours until the next dose.

I go online to masturbate to pictures nobody wants me to masturbate to. The Wikipedia picture for Guy de Maupassant. An infomercial for a robotic ping-pong server. I sign onto the Miller Family Blog and search for photos of Mama Miller wading into the shallow end at baby’s first barbecue, use my palm to block out the happy-drool infant, the corner of my pinky to blot away the maternal lovelight in Mama’s eye. Then I need two hands and I just squint.

Eight hours until the second dose.

Yesterday, our third date, driving across the busted-up city for pawnshops, looking for meth-money trinkets to buy at one store and sell to another. It is a mitzvah to set objects free, even if it is not very free or for very long. Later, pink and gold clouds painted across the sky, making our way, not holding hands, to a tree he knows that’s infested with hundreds of tiny, tiny bats. Watching their mass nightly exodus: they fluttered dark and deranged against that billion-dollar sunset, divebombed our faces when it got too dark.

My old middle school’s website, looking up forgotten science teachers, searching for signs of lingering attraction. The first A-bomb tests in the South Pacific created fireballs three miles wide. It is hard to masturbate when I am distracted. I am always distracted.

Five and a half hours.

Bat-gazing, in this ghost-town city. Walking back to the car, still not touching.

Sometimes when I look at pictures of strangers I pretend everybody in the shot is already dead. It’s not always to masturbate. Sometimes I just like to feel sad.

I paid cash for the pills—pills and a pack of cigarettes and a box of condoms—with a hundred-dollar bill, and I can tell anybody else that, but he’ll offer me money and I hate when people pay for half of anything. It didn’t come up, when he was peeling off the ribbons of exploded latex, rolling that thick ring down the base and flipping it into the trash. It’s nice to know a man who isn’t Catholic.

Three hours.

All day I have felt productive, sitting here still unshowered, not making a baby, and the thing about masturbating to pictures nobody wants you to masturbate to is that there are so many of them. I am a sexual terrorist. It’s not so different from being a normal terrorist, really, except my stomach is bent on itself and my fingers are sore and nobody else is scared at all.

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