VINYL DIARY #3: SUICIDE (tHROAT fUCK Pt.1)

suicide1977 VINYL DIARY

SUICIDE
PT. 1

He was throat fucking her really hard. Gags, saliva, tear streaked mascara, the whole nine.
Consensual of course, $50 took care of that.

She arrived at his door in a threadbare Annie Hall coat. Boho chic, she told herself. Her hair was a dirty blond birds nest of neglect, tucked messily under a thrift store beret. The eyeliner was slashed on by a hand that stopped caring and just went through the motions. Her mouth, on the other hand, smelled minty fresh. Full lips formed a slightly crooked smile which revealed a straight set of teeth, save for a slightly protruding lateral incisor. She called it her personality tooth, the one broken tile in an otherwise perfect Colgate mouth.
Her name was Elizabeth Pennyworth but she’d stopped using that handle ages ago. Besides, she knew what she was worth. It didn’t bear repeating.

“Hi, I’m Blossom.”

“Hey now, come on in. You can keep your shoes on but try not to step on my records”

Ok, I’ll try. Nice to meet you too.

She made her way to the faux leather loveseat. The faux part of the sofa had peeled off over the years, necessitating a quilt of blankets that disguised the outer flaws of a still serviceable couch.
He sat diagonally from her rather primly, against the arm of a heavily blanketed three-seater. Dude’s body language was a picture of personal economy, dressed in filthy jeans and a well-worn but freshly laundered Swans baseball shirt.
The shirt mattered to him.

I sure hope the underwear did too, she thought to herself.

As she scanned the contents of the tiny room, her eyes went straight to the vintage Lloyd’s turntable perched atop a boxy looking Ikea stand. A pair of cheap speakers bookended a well worn stack of albums the owner had given up trying to talk to others about.

….We heal, we fuck, we pray, we hate
We reach, we touch, we lose, we taste….

Michael Gira preached, not enough people listened. Well, at least that’s what he thought. Swans were a first for her. Interesting, but why was the baby on the album jacket crying?

“So how are you, Blossom?”

“I’m good thanks. Sorry but I never did catch your name.”

“Oh yeah, right. You can call me Travis. Some people call me Travis.”

“So I guess I don’t have to call you “Pepperoni _Nips1970” anymore. I know it’s Tinder and all but why don’t you try a more conventional handle?”

“Because I have talents and I want strange things. I don’t think “Suzie_Creamcheese84” would really be my type anyway, and vice versa. Sometimes, lonely is better.”

His last words hung there for too long. She had no response. It lingered into uncomfortable silence, a few seconds too much for comfort.

“So, uh, you have my money?”

“Oh yeah, sure. I guess it’s customary to pay first”

I’m not a whore, you douchebag. I’m addicted to the only thing that makes me feel good and I have self-esteem issues.

“Yeah, always pay first.”

The uniform clicking sound of the runout groove told Travis it was time to choose another record. Sonics, Stooges, Sugarloaf…. he already knew what he was looking for.

Suicide. 1977 debut, Red Star reissue, blood red wax.