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Taking Out the Trash

January 10, 2017

Taking Out the Trash

"So, I deleted my Tinder account," I say, unwrapping the scarf around my neck. I sit down at a coffee table where my friend awaits me.


"What?" my friend says, looking up from the menu. "Really? Why did you do that?"


"I mean, I didn't really use it, it was just using up data on my phone, and anyways, all the guys had pictures of them standing next to BMWs with fake Rolexes on." I grab the other menu and start flipping through it, "like get out of my face, ya know what I mean?"


"Right," she replies, nodding her head suspiciously, "So..did something...maybe...happen this weekend..."


"Uh," I say with a shaky tone, "nope, nothing." I keep looking down at my menu and suddenly slam it shut on the table. "I'm not sure what I did in my past life, but I had to have ruined a couple marriages or suffocated my servant with a goose-filled pillow. Cause this doesn't make sense."


"I like how you assume you had a servant in your past life."


"I dream big about the past."


The club’s dimly lit and filled with the same faces I scroll through on Instagram when I take a shit. Their lips are plump, their tits are out and their weaves are intact. Fucking intact. The men aren’t much better, in fact, the only difference is their lack of chest fat. But at the end of the day, they have nipples too, so it’s the same shit. No one’s really smiling, but no one’s really frowning - the club’s filled with inconclusiveness. The dj’s standing in the corner, fingers rubbing soulfully against the vinyl records, his straggly hair moistened from the sweat dripping down his face - he’s fucking vibin’. I’m pretty sure I saw him wearing the same blue sweater from last weekend, but I’m lucky if I remember to change my socks on a monthly basis, so who the fuck am I to say anything.


I’m sliding my way through the crowded room with Tijana bobbing to the music behind me. I ignore the wandering eyes that lay upon me as I gently press my hand against people’s backs, maneuvering my way past them. They always look at me when they feel my fingertips gently pressed against their backs, no one really touches each other anymore.


We make it to our usual spot: a small corner beside the end of the bar. I put my bag down on the table and immediately start swinging my hips, moving my hands through my curly hair, massaging my scalp, feeling the tingle flush its way down my back. I close eyes, absorbing the feeling of release. When I open my eyes, a man’s standing in front of me, doing an 80’s jive. It doesn’t turn me on, however, it doesn’t repulse me. I look at him and notice he has an eyebrow piercing. This automatically alerts me to the possibility of him being a closeted homosexual, a fear that I’ve had since it’s apparent that it’s all I can attract. My eyes gaze down his body, examining for more clues confirming my assumption. He has a silver chain around his neck which bounces off the chest hair that’s aggressively poking out of his tight black shirt. Before my eyes can move any lower, he steps towards, placing his face next to mine, his lips hovering beside my ear.


“I want you to be my lover,” he says, his breath hits my ear and wraps around my face.


My sensual sway turns into an anxious bob, as I look at him concernedly, “what?”


“I want you to be my lover,” he says a little louder, lips brushing up against the peach fuzz on my ear.


I stop bobbing from side to side and stare at him, “are you married?”


“No,” he says smiling.


Oh, Jesus fucking christ, you just can’t tell me.


“Do you have a girlfriend?”


He stares at me and then looks at the floor, “yes.”


I look at him, slightly annoyed and start to dance again, “what am I supposed to do with you?”


He jerks his head back and looks at me confused, “what I meant was--” his hands preparing to explain to me the arrangement he's purposing.


“No, no, no,” I reply, as my finger shakes in front of his face, “what am I supposed to do with you?”




“Come on man,” I say, looking at his furrowed eyebrows, “why you doing this? Just go home to your girlfriend, be with her or don’t be with her, and don’t ever wear that shirt again.”


I return back to dancing and through my peripherals I see him disappear into the crowd. Minutes pass, my face is dripping with sweat and my head dizzy from all the cigarette smoke.


“I’m going home,” I say to Tijana as I grab my bag from the table.


“Okay, I’m going to stay here a bit longer,” she says, her arms pumping higher into the air as her boobs bounce up and down. There’s something comforting about them.


I turn around and push my way through the crowd towards the exit. A girl in a large-brimmed hat stops in front of me, talking to a man that looks like he should be on a yacht.


“Can you move?” I ask, gesturing with my hands, smiling.


A hand grabs my arm and I look around as I hear a voice, “you’re going to calm down, understand?”


The guy that looks like he should be on a yacht has his hand firmly gripped around my wrist. He squeezes it harder, pulling my wrist closer towards him. He’s wearing a baby blue button-down shirt with overly gelled that's combed to one side. He reminds me of those Instagram male models for online discount shops, you know, where they’re casually sitting on concrete steps with cuffed pants, smiling as their ankles are perfectly angled to show off 50% off bamboo flip-flops.


“What?” I say, jolting my hand from his grip, trying not to laugh.


“You heard me," he says, staring at me emotionlessly, "you’re going to calm down.”


I look around, laughing, “what the fuck are you talking about, calm down? I just asked her to move to the side.”


He grabs my arm again and looks at me in silence. What? Am I in a PSA for assholes?

I take a step towards him, surprised, he hesitantly moves back, loosening his grip, “listen, you fucking frat boy rapist, don’t fucking touch me.”


A piece of overly gelled hair stiffly falls in front of his face.


“What the fuck are you going to do?” I ask with a smile.


He steps back.


“What?" I ask again, smiling. "You wanted to fucking hit me in this club? Show her how big your dick is? You’re half my size, you loafer wearing fuck.”


“Fuck you,” he replies insecurely.


“Fuck me?” my tone becomes harsh, “next time you touch me, you’ll be using Tinder from a fucking hospital bed. You fucker.” Hmm, I don't know if I like that comeback line. It's a little lame and would probably get him sympathy fucks. You tried. Next time, Natasha, next time.

"How are you the only person I know that encounters these people?" she asks while flagging down the waitress. "I mean really, these guys sound like absolute trash, fucking garbage."


"Well, it's not like I gave them my number," I say slightly offended. "And I'm sure I'm not the only one...I mean, there have to be other people who meet these idio---"


"Oh, I forgot to ask you," she says, checking her phone. "Remember that guy I met? The one that liked all my profile pictures on Facebook?"


My eyes look up at the ceiling as I mentally search through the roll-a-dex of men stored in my head.


"Uh, the one that drove you home from the club when it was raining?"


"Yeah!" she says with bright eyes as readjusts herself in her chair. "Okay, so I found out he's married, I mean, I found out after we kissed. But there's just something about him, we connect--"


"I swear to god," I mumble, shaking my head as I rub my eyes.


"What did you say?" she asks excitedly.


"I said, you should totally fuck him," I reply with a touch of sarcasm.


"Yeah?" she questions. Her eyes shine with my statement of approval.


"I mean, between the closeted homosexual and the he-man woman-hater I just met, your guy sounds like a good guy, definitely not the trash I encountered," I reply, nodding my head with slight exaggeration.


"Yeah," she says smiling, "he's such a good guy and he's so sweet."


"You gotta lock that down, girl."


"He's married," she says with disappointment.


"Funny how trash comes in different bags, eh?"

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