by Devin Hansen: Myspace.com/inhumanimal

--

I've got ten years on everyone in the joint.

And I show every year of that decade of abuse.

Smoky lips. Frown lines. A beer belly that I suck-in while walking to the bathroom to puke.

"You all right in there?" some kid asks.

"Fuck yeah," I say between gags. "Just making more room."

I come back to see my table filled with four youth, but sit there anyway.

They talk in slang so foreign to me, I can't even decipher the metaphors.

Across the table is a chubby girl, probably born when I was in Junior High, kissing a boy with cologne that even I can taste.

They duel tongues in sword-play, like two frogs fighting over the last fly.

I try to look away, but am magnetized by disgust.

And maybe a little desire.

I've got a thing for young chubbies. The real women, I call em.

They've got the flesh. They've got the fat, set behind skin that's still taut. Some glorious blend of soft and firm.

Plus, sometimes they're desperate. And oral. Evidenced by the scene before me.

She moved from his mouth to his chin and neck, tongue flicking wildly as if she were licking the BBQ sauce off a slab of ribs.

I see his eyes roll back as she sucks his neck, and he taps fists with a buddy over her shoulder. Then he gently pushes her away, lays a kiss on her cheek and fetches another round.

"You're too pretty for him," I shout across the table. The jukebox is blaring some songs I don't know.

She smiles and takes a drink.

At the bar, the two guys have sandwiched a blonde with small tits and a lumbar tattoo.

I sit with the fat girl and drink. Share some jokes. Some inappropriate comments. A few dollars play through the jukebox and we're laughing. Finally, she looks back and sees her guys flirting, pinning that skinny blonde, who giggles and paws at their sideways ballcaps.

Then her man starts tapping tongues with the girl, while his buddy gyrates on her ass.

"Boys," I say with lament.

The fat girl turns on her stool and fumes.

She's got a face that's been called pretty one too many times, but it truly is, even when angry.

"Well his ass can walk home," she says, putting her cigarettes into her purse.

"I could use a lift," I venture.

She looks into my eyes, my best feature. Pauses. Then says, "Why not."

We get up, she puts her arm around my waist, and flicks off the boys on our way out.

In the street she wants to cry, but lays one on me instead.

I like her taste. Its of menthol and meat....I wouldn't want to guess how my vile mouth is flavored.

We get into her car, so tiny the steering wheel brushes her breasts.

"Where do you live?" she asks.

"I thought we were staying at your place," again I venture.

She sighs. Looks me up and down. This aged, yet vital frame. Then starts the car.

"I live in Moline," she says. "My roomate is out of town."

"Sweet."

She starts driving.

"Hey," I say, "Can we stop at the store for a second?"

"I've got protection. You don't have to worry."

"No, no, that's cool," I say. "I just have to pick up some beer."

And maybe a bottle of BBQ sauce.