Jessica Pt. 02

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Jessica's day in the life of La...
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Part 2 of the 2 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 11/24/2017
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I see people passing as I walk down the dark, deserted street. They stare at me out of desire. They are as disgusting as they are intriguing to me. I cannot bring myself to pursue any possibilities after my last charade with Ross and Ashley.

Street lights hang over the intersections, changing between green, yellow, and red. The humans, in their rolling boxes, stop at the white lines on red, push them into motion on green, and the people on the sidewalks cross at the sign of a white light human suspended in a box on the opposite side of the street--their destination. I follow as one of these beings, though I cannot imagine being one of them.

I think of Ashley. Cool raindrops fall from the sky and drizzle upon the streets of La--Los Angeles--the City of Angels.

As I make my way to nowhere in particular, I realize that God and Satan are in these street lights. With a simple scarlet dot, these people are completely neutralized. Green, the color of grass, is a good sign. It is good fortune to pass into green for it is efficiency; productivity. Yellow is horror. Yellow leads to damaging, painful places. I see from the craziness it inspires in these creatures that being caught yellow is to be caught in judgment and indecision. I take note that green is an archetype for the Lord and red is, and has always been, a color for darkness, anger, passion.

Desire leads to torment.

As the rain clouds descend upon the city, the underbelly of cloud radiates pink and orange from the dangerous level of big-city light pollution. I find myself standing before a brilliant neon blue sign that reads 'Presley's Bar and Grill': a place of slaughter and home to the boozehound sport. Water drips from my hair onto my face as the rain dampens me. I see people huddled under the transom overseeing Presley's. Some peer at me. Most are drunkards, knocked into limbo by the manifestation of the rain passing through their existence.

He comes bustling out of Presley's like a man on a mission. His eyes see through me until he is upon me, and then he adjusts. His face changes into that of a man who has just had a very important epiphany. He wears a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase at his side. He has parted short black hair. "What's your name?" He yells through the cheer of the rain.

"Jessica." I state. This is all I know.

"How much do you charge?" He asks. Having stepped out into the downpour, his hair begins to strain and spread over his forehead.

"I don't accept money." I say. True enough. Money is a desirable object. Being a desirable object in my own, I haven't any use for such useless items. He is proposing that I am a hooker, a scenario buried in my memories that I will play upon, but will not act upon. Whoredom is as fickle as it is potentially dangerous. Passion is caused by desire. Currency is a desire that humans have adapted upon. I wish only to make the world a happier place in my own way, and money takes away from that.

"I'm Paul. Can I buy you a drink?" He asks.

This is a straightforward male pick-up line. "There's no need for that. I am in no mood for foreplay. If you wish to screw my brains out, then so be it."

We go back to Paul's house. While we're driving in his beamer, he talks on and on about his horrible day and how he lost an important case. He took advantage of my position in the passenger seat by sliding his hand up and down my leg until he slips it under the waistband of my sweats and fingers my vagina. I am not stimulated enough to find this arousing, but I don't think it necessary to ward his touch away. I feign silent anticipation for his being inside me.

At his penthouse apartment, Paul pours himself a glass of brandy and asks that I help myself to his wife's assortment of night gowns. Melissa--she is out of town for the weekend, according to Paul. I can, morally, only hope that she is cheating on him in kind wherever she is. Her husband does not wear his wedding ring. Judgment is not for me to decide. I dress in his wife's most sensual nightie. Her figure is very similar to my own: small, thin, and a perfectly proportioned, ample bust.

Paul, the bastard lawyer, is decent with his rod. He plows me from behind against the armrest of his fancy black leather couch. I feel his hand clapping my right butt cheek, inspiring my vagina to tighten around his cock. He fondles my breasts, licking my nipples and playfully biting the flesh around my areola for at least half an hour. We do it up and down, backward, side-to-side, and at one point, I am laying over him with my back on his furry chest as he grips my waist, plunging his penis into me from below. By three in the morning, he is exhausted and asks that I ride him until he's ready to come. I do so, holding my climax until he forces me onto all fours at the bedside and stands in me at doggie, dribbling his fishy semen between my legs. Paul pushes me away, springing his erect johnson from my pussy where he haphazardly rolls onto the bed sideways, and passes out.

His face is gaunt, plastered against his sweat-covered pillow. After ten minutes of observing his immobile form, I realize that Paul is not breathing. I watch him carefully. Paul's mouth is open an inch and his eyes a hair. His right hand is curled about his left bicep. Paul is dead. I have sexually given him a heart-attack or stroke, which was probably inspired shortly after we came together. Coming with my companion is a feat in which I am naturally gifted. In this case, Paul's end is justified as his wife will see how little regard he held for her, requesting a whore in her place while she is absent. I do not believe myself to be a hooker, asking no profit for my actions.

I doubt Melissa will see it that way.

At five in the morning, I raid Melissa's closet, dressing, and taking all the clothes that characteristically match my features and necessities for my facade. I carry these in an outdoor sports backpack I find under the bed. The process reminds me of Ross and Ashley. I find that I miss their discretion. Compared to Paul, I admire their capability to deny outside influences and remain faithful to one another. Ross and Ashley--judging by their lifestyle and actions--were poor, but happy nonetheless. Paul was very unhappy, but wealthy in his own. I see that money is not required for happiness. I must muse upon this later.

I leave Paul's penthouse and follow the streets until the sun rises in the east, casting a shiny glow over the humid city of La.

Despite the busyness in the last twelve hours, I find that I am not sleepy in the least. I am, however, feeling a sensation coursing through my belly that sends hunger to my brain. The wind blows my silky hair over my shoulders as I follow the morning humans along their routes, leaving most as they usher to the donut stores, which seem to supply the humans with their fatty needs at any given time. I notice McDonalds is also brimming with hungry humans, like flies to an obese patty of feces.

The rain from earlier has bathed the city in a glistening radiance. The weather patters in La are as spontaneous as its peculiar inhabitants, most of which couldn't care a less that they are getting drenched. Having awakened in a sewer, I find that my being wetter--no innuendo intended--doesn't bother me. Rain is rain. Weather is weather. If I happen to be out in it, then I am out in it.

I decided to scope out one of these donut stores. It is titled 'Sebastian's Donuts and Coffee'. There is a very large man holding a thick yellow circle over his head in front of the building. I cannot help but simply stare at it as the sun breaks through the cloud-cover behind his rugged arm and shines golden light upon the street corner I'm standing on. I feel beautiful as the wind continues to rustle my hair. I'm wearing a wonderful assortment from Sak's Fifth Avenue: a white blouse and black slacks with matching black heels. I still cannot take my eyes off the donut man: Sebastian, I suppose. I will keep his image with me, for he is a symbol of all that is whole and happy.

When I enter the store, there are four people in the line ahead. Basic manners are to wait at the back of the line until your turn is dealt. Behind the counter, there is a man with rotund cheeks working the counter. While he may be Sebastian himself, he is not my Sebastian. My Sebastian is strong, hearty, snug in his blue work-pants, and overworked in his white, long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has been building houses for children, and plays in a jazz band in the evenings. My Sebastian will not tire after only three hours.

It's my turn. I step up to the glass case where there are thousands of disgusting yellow shapes with all kinds of trash and odd greasy colors drizzled on top. Some are circles, some are lines, some are S shaped--and some look strikingly like fecal splatters. These are bear-claws or apple fritters. I am confused as to why I am inclined to use some of these as nourishment like the rest of these people. These food stations are putting out questionable matter in even more questionable shapes. Perhaps there is something psychological I'm missing.

"C'mon lady, I ain't got all day!" The flabby old Sebastian behind the counter scowls. "Time is money. C'mon, let's go!"

Time is money. There are more people behind me now. "What is a bear-claw?"

"Apple-cinnamon--you gonna buy a bear-claw or ain't cha'?"

"I will buy a bear-claw." I say carefully.

"All right. Will that be all ma'am?" Sebastian asks.

"That will be all." I state.

"Total comes to two-sixteen." He nods.

I gaze at him. I hear the shoes of the people behind me squeaking on the tile floor as they shift impatiently. I continue staring.

"Look, lady," he points to a small screen over the register where the number he is repeating is highlighted. "Two sixteen!"

My eyes are wide. My fingers are resting on the top of the display case over the donut holes. I am not moving an inch. I hear my heart thumping in my chest.

"Hey, come on already!" Someone behind me whines.

"Yeah, what the hell gives?" Another asks.

Both of these sayings are, in light, very poor morals to live on. Who would want to come quickly? And I am unsure as to how hell can be taken or given aside from the metaphorical adjective, in which case, I see no hell taking place.

"Either pay or get out!" The cheap, lousy Sebastian is yelling now. "What's your problem, lady?"

"I am giving you my time. Time is money, friend." I smile.

"Somebody give her five freakin' bucks already so she'll get her shit on the road!"

Another silly human gesture. I wish to correct these people in their feeble, wasted lives, but the atmosphere suggests that such would be inappropriate as well as useless.

"Since my timely payment is insufficient for your needs--

"Yeah, you didn't pay anything, dumbass!" Sebastian interrupts.

--I will take my leave from your damaged presence with hopes that you will one day return to your beautiful figure that heralds this hallowed store." I turn on my heel and stride from the donut station. All is quiet as I pass through the glass doors preceding the donut shop. I stand on the opposite side of the road and give Sebastian the donut man a final loving gaze.

"I will keep you in my heart always." I say, and continue down the road.

After walking through neighborhood streets for approximately forty-three minutes, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four--seconds I come upon a rather small little motel overlooking a dried creek. I walk across the bridge leading over the dried and crackled creek-bed. The motel is mostly white, pink, and red. These are... candy colors, which are supposed to be sweet, but when I look at this place I sense a queasy unsettling sensation. My thought is a crime scene of a very brutally massacred clown, but that is simply the random human conclusion that continuously tries to play through my mind. The name of the hotel is Bourbon Hotel--a very strange name for such a strangely colored place.

There's that sick feeling again.

I need a room but have no money. I tell Jim, the teller downstairs, my husband is supposed to meet me in the room later this evening. I offer him a hand-job. As predicted, he declines for a straight up blow-job. I perform to the best of my ability, taking the card key from his shaking fingers afterward. I conjure my perkiest smile for Jim while wiping the corner of my mouth, and go up the stairs and outside to my bedroom on the second floor. My room number is 57. I find my matching number, unlock the door with the card key and enter the small hotel room. Over the windows, golden brown drapes are blocking out the violent sun glaring in from the west. Dust particles fill the air, and I notice the aroma of vomit floating around the room; a fruity ralph if my nose is correct, for which I have no doubt.

The bed sheets are pink and red, like the building's colors. Brown stains--the color of coffee--mark the ceiling in ovals and circles. Bourbon Hotel is a very old hotel from the looks of it. I peek in the bathroom. It's pink in there. I see my beautiful self in a thousand obtuse angles, blinking in response to the star shape in the center where something struck the mirror. I don't expect to use the shower; wouldn't if I needed to. There are sharp rusty slashes on the floor of the porcelain tub.

I round the doorway and re-enter the bedroom to open the drapes. As I draw them back, the sun hits me like a hurricane. I see a man of forty to forty-five standing on the balcony across from the pool. He is smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee, and reading the newspaper. He looks up, gazes at me, extinguishing all attention he had balanced evenly in his many tasks. We peer at one another for what feels like a long time. I grin my perfectly devilish grin at him. The man does a strange thing after that: he lifts the newspaper to the side of his head and crooks it slightly to the right. This is a form of wave, or greeting.

I turn back to my bed and recline in the thoughts and ideas I have of human beings resting on their backs. Closing my eyes, I feel... nothing. My eyes are closed. That is all.

["See me, Jessica? Of course you can't see me. You haven't learned to see yet..."]

I wake up as the sun's final glint fades behind the trees beyond a freeway nearby. The carpet is strawberry. The walls are made of blueberries. The drapes are chocolate. The sheets are blood. I smile.

Pop.

"Crunch." I whisper.

I peer down at my hands. My fingernails are razors on the tips of my fingers--fingers capable of granting life as well as taking it. They are peach, mature peach--not pink like the rest of this place. My senses are overloaded. I have inhaled some bodily toxin from my dreaming and I am overly sensitive. Or perhaps I'm becoming a human by indulging in my every emotion as though it were of some significance.

I rest again.

["Dear, Dr. Farmer,

Pleese giv me a kitee 4 my birfday, pwetty pleese?"

"What is all this about. You don't think she's perfect because she's not like you? You're crazy. You're evil. You're flawed. This is something you can never be and that sickens you, sickens you because every day you have to wake up and you're still the same and that drives you crazy. Jessica doesn't care about that. She's above that. You can be mad if you want to, but don't take it out on her. This is progress, and the things you believe will tear that progress apart.

Do what you want with me, but please don't hurt Jessica..."]

Such strange dreams. I'm not certain how to interpret them.

I get up and move to the window to look out. The man is gone. The sky is growing darker and bluer with every passing moment through twilight. My stomach rumbles. I've been hungry for almost as long as I can remember. I remember Ross, Ashley, Paul, and my Donut Man. My life is a series of incidents, tacked together with Gorilla Glue. It occurs to me that I am completely out of my mind compared to these humans. There is no generic person. Humanity is a collection of diversity, claiming that all its parts are equal and one, while defying that statement with the strength of their actions. I do not think I can ever understand these beings.

But there is one thing I do know how to do.

I dress in the gold and white gown and robe I took from the back of Melissa's closet door. She has, so far, proven to be more useful than any human being I have come into contact with, and the two of us remain anonymous to one another. Ironic, and pleasant in its own. Making sure to take the card key so as to avoid locking myself out, I take my empty ice bucket and leave my room in a pair of Melissa's slippers. They clip-clap in whispers along the cement walk as I make my way around the motel's upper floor, passing the place where my handsome multitasking stranger was lingering. I descend the stairs and enter the office. I see Jim who swallows and smiles gratefully at the sight of me. I return the smile and lick my lips in his direction when the ice bucket is full, and then head out the way I came.

As I ascend the stairs, my heart leaps at the sight of the man in blue jeans and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, smoking a cigarette beneath the light at the end of the walk. I stride past him and he addresses me: "Hey there, care for a smoke?"

I stop and turn on my heel with my mouth small, but pursed in interest. "Sure." I don't smoke--usually. This man has intrigued me for some reason. I would like to know why my body and heart has taken interest.

Approaching him, he holds out his cigarette and I take it. I puff on the end. Horrible sick slides down my throat. It makes me want to cough, but I don't. While this is happening, I am watching him. His lips are as warm and inviting as his green eyes. His hair is short and brown, and he has stubble all over his cheeks and chin, but I would not see him clean-shaven.

"I'm Jessica." I proclaim. He takes his cigarette from my fingers and presses it to his lips, sucking down the smoke.

"Tom." He murmurs without a care in the world. Smoke billows from his lips in threads of curly white hair. The wind takes it away and the substance disappears over the shimmering reflection of the pool.

"You're not married." I say, noticing that he has no ring on his finger.

"Used to be," he shrugs. He looks me up and down out of the corner of his eye. "You're not married either."

"I'm twenty years younger than you, Mister." I say, innocent.

He hums, lifting his eyebrows insightfully before coolly sucking on the end of his smoke. I feel the same sick when I take another puff. There is a little left when I hand it back.

"I saw you earlier." He says through the silence and nods at my room window across the way. "That your room?"

"Maybe. Is this yours?" I nod at the room behind where he was standing earlier.

"Yeah, wanna see?"

"Okie-doke," --artichokey--smoky.

He is ruthless. I am well satisfied in my partnership with Tom. He is as strong as he is dextrous with his fingers, hitting all my nerves and particularly favorite places at all the right times. He often waits a little before putting his fingers into action, letting my body yearn for only a moment before indulging in my want, lavishing my muscles with relaxation. Tom is a wonderful lover, which is more than I can say for Paul who merely plugged me and died.

Women have needs. A poor, inattentive lover can ruin a girl and her interest in future sexual exploits, much the way one learning to play the guitar should not go out and buy the cheapest guitar she can afford for how potentially damaging the poorly designed instrument can be to the player's development. And humans are so like musical instruments. Sex is an art-form in its own, one that very few strive to really understand. If I am not being played to the zenith of musical sound and pleasure then my partner is lacking. This is my talent, this is what I was made to do.

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