Songs About Fucking

She's 21 and in America, she's just split up with her boyfriend, running away from everything she knows, trying to find something she believes in.

She's been walking around the cold streets, wanting to feel something, and has just sat down in a bar. After having her passport studied hard, she's drinking beer and listening to music on her own.

She's got long red dreads, with beads dotted here and there, skinny, pale skinned from a nocturnal lifestyle, piercings, heavy black eyeliner and mascara but no other make-up. She's got that punk lack of concern about showing flesh, and her 'Songs About Fucking' T-shirt has the neck and arms torn off so that her black bra is clearly visible. Ripped fishnet stockings snake out of biker boots, but the tops aren't hidden by her short, pleated skirt.

If this was nighttime she'd have all the boys hitting on her, and she'd do anything they wanted just to try to feel again, but she's still on UK body clock and the place is empty. She closes her eyes and drifts off in her grungey mixtape for a while, it's not the most experimental in the world, but safe and soothing, appropriate. Can't not have Nirvana, and despite the over-familiarity, it still hits the mark. Bit of early Mudhoney for energy, Sonic Youth, Butthole Surfers and Pixies aren't really grunge, but fit her mood better than most of the slop that is. Plenty of Albini of course, but for some reason, it's Melvins that are pushing her buttons today.

She rewinds and nods along, now that her eyes are open she notices there's someone sitting opposite her, perhaps he's a Brit too. He's kind of hot, she might as well see if he'll bite. She raises her bottle, he smiles and waves his coke back. She gestures at the seat next to her, and he shrugs and walks over.

They shake hands and introduce themselves, laughing at each others' similar accents. She offers him a beer when she gets a new one, but he says he's fine. When she gets back to the table, he's listening to her headphones, asks what the current track is. She checks, and tells him it's Meat Puppets. For some reason, this makes him smirk at a secret joke.

Their conversation quickly moves beyond recommendations for places to visit, and without really knowing why, she's spilling her guts about all her problems. There's just something about him she trusts, something that makes her want to open up to him. He's stroking her hair as he talks softly, and things start to seem better. His eyes are amazing, warm and cool, pulling her in without giving anything away.

She's lost track of what he's saying, but it doesn't matter, his hand is sliding up her skirt, but it doesn't matter, her voice is sleepily replying to him automatically, but it doesn't matter. All that she cares about is how incredible she feels, like all her pain has been wrapped up and put away, allowing a deep, welling up of arousal.

The barman might have noticed what's going on, but probably doesn't care, figures some English girl who drinks beer at lunchtime always hooks up with strange guys in bars. Still, he'd prefer a bit of privacy and asks her back to his hotel. She literally can't refuse.

It's not the Hilton, but his room is nice and clean, not that she really notices, she's still swimming in the space between his eyes and voice. He lays her down and she's soon not wearing any underwear, she doesn't worry about how it magically disappeared, she's just glad that he can easily touch her, while she's gently stuck to the bed.

She comes a couple of times in this blissful state, soaking up the new patterns of thought he suggests, it starts to feel like she's always known him, like they came here together, like her deepest desire has always been to serve him, to please him, to obey him.

She's sucking his cock expertly, hungrily, gazing up at him adoringly. She's started to feel again, She's found something she can believe in.