Misplaced my face and dropped my eyes and feeling somewhat empty

©Debra Hampton,

Suddenly, there wasn’t much to talk about. He got out of bed and the sheet fell from his body. His flaccid penis stuck out like a pink worm between his legs. His sack just hung. He found his shorts and put them on. I stood there smoking and sobering up. He asked me to hand him his pants. I took my time about it. He put those on and opened his wallet. I stubbed out my smoke and let him hold me close. We rubbed up against each other touching and sniffing like a couple of animals. Then he stuffed a bill into my back pocket and told me to be careful out there, and to be sure to take a cab.

Of course I kept the money, walked three blocks to the subway, where I went underground and bought a token for a buck.

There were actually a couple normal-looking people on board. I sat down next to a black lady who was robustly eating a coffee cake bite by bite from a brown paper bag. She had her hair tied up like Aunt Jemima but didn’t have Aunt Jemima’s friendly, fawning smile. I wondered what she was so angry about. She was really letting that coffee cake have it.

A trail of white powdered crumbs littered the front of her jacket and she didn’t even care to brush them off. The subway hissed and swayed. I could see through the little window into the last car where a posse of club kids held court. Their colored afros and chain links bobbed and clinked. I wondered where the party was.

Did everyone feel so empty after sex or was it just me? Orgasms were great, but after they were over, you were left alone with fifty bucks and not much else but the memory of being fucked.

            The kids with the colored afros and gold links were walking through the cars, getting closer. Even in the darkness, I could tell they were an eclectic bunch. I picked out a Mexican with a red bandana around his neck, and sweaty arms that bulged out of a cut-up jean jacket. His hair was slicked back and greasy. As he got closer, I noticed he wore a patch over one eye. I imagined he was a passionate lay. I pictured him grabbing me by the hair and shoving his cock in from behind. His friend wasn’t bad-looking either. He carried a boom box on his shoulders but it must’ve been busted or something because it wasn’t playing any music. Still, the kids had a pulse to their step and they were singing their own songs. The girl of the bunch twirled a feather boa and laughed and laughed. What did it mean to have fantasies of orgies and rape?