Tummy Aches

Kneeling into you without remorse, my fingers slip right in, faint familiarity from another life; like a well chained door, securely fastened, I heed not to re-explore.

Lingering at the food truck watching the line get longer, hesitating to pounce on the churros that are the latest craze in this country that literally knows nothing about you other than you're irresistible, I finally succumb and fall in cue. I relish that you are an ever so sweet supplement between entering another crowded, sweaty dance club. The streets are full with long, skinny legs, angel blondes with bared navels, blue eyes and the fruity smell of vape juice. I sway to the blasting thump of beats watching tattooed bouncers in black ignore chat-ups from pissed wanna be patrons. Uni. sucks. That's why we're all here, to purge ourselves of the late night cramming.

On this Scandinavian 'Aveny-Meny' crowded with inebriated, molly dosed young crowd. churros are no better at two a.m. than a pork-grinded random blend of a hot dog, (surely chocked full of weird ingredients no one can focus on). The kind that are bright red, squeamish looking, all wobbly- a wank of a dog that hangs off both ends of the bun. Just weird. Anyway, this kind of crap food used to soak up that last shot of schnapps in the freshman days, the last free shots sent to my mates and me by some bloated drunk stumbling toward us at club number, I forget. So, as the churro line thins out I make the move and order twenty-four.

Twenty-four? He's way to sober for me, staring into my barely open eyes.

Pushing my card into his hands, I sway and try to punch in my code. Damn-it. I try again. YES! The dude shrugs and places the bag in mine. We, the churros and I, slip into a quiet alley, sit on the curb and consuming them one by one I am in limbo, the ultimate sugar high, drifting, drooling. Nothing feels better than my loose jeans allowing my stomach to breathe.

A month passes, maybe a year and I am at some lake where old friends gather to suck down wine, pass around bowls of cheese balls, sour candy, mixed chocolate, sour cream and onion flavoured chips, seriously, my favourite. Sneaking? Not really. No one gives a shit this drunk. We find ourselves sliding to the base of a pokey-assed pine and indulge, that is me and two bags of munchies. Now that was fun in hind sight. However, my favourite baggy jeans, the totally dope ones with twelve holes are getting tight.

Each day I meet my eyes, I avert quickly applying a few streaks of grey eyeliner; I know nothing of this new hyped up "self love" because that's just too cringe. It's over. At least I think I said so once. I stopped thinking about everything that made me unable to lay under the clouds free falling through each lazy day of summer. I repaint my fingernails matte black, get drunk, break a special champagne flute from my grandmother and feel sort of bad. But not really. Binge text and order pizza plus fries. Num!

There was this one summer night, most similar to all of my nights here, that is, complimented with dusky light lasting until three a.m., and all that I tried desperately to distract my fingers with my one of my culinary specialties, cheesy, garlic stuffed mushrooms, Cava and replays of Lana Del Ray quieted my `don't go there´ thoughts. It went quite well. I assume it kept my other weirder, unkempt, unhinged whiney self busy as we never collided. I passed out drunk texting again though. Kinda stupid, but yea. That's how it went down.

Now it's mid-July, another summer and I've not revisited the churros truck or downed the Ouzo in the freezer like planned yet. Perhaps our time is nearing? We clearly need an outing. Fingers, sticky sugary fingers. I hook up with some sort of friends and lose them, then we find each other in the toilets of some stinky assed pub and take loads of selfies. I look too fat in comparison. My hair is a rusty brown, I think about dying it blonde then settle on entertaining myself with a purple streak or two. I feel like my thighs are poking through the holes in my jeans though.

Holy shit, check us out now! How many of us are in here? Who cares? I did it! I secretly made it to my goal of hitting seven food trucks, nineteen and a half pubs and here we all are are. The thud of monotonous spins bang in my head. Nobody knows what song it is anymore. Rows of Doc Martins, Aussie Uggs and Ballerina slippers peep out from under the doors to the stalls strapped to their humans feet. Ha! I knew this is what was needed.

"I need to get my shit together" ~ my last words I recall. Barely.

On my own, just for two days to be real, I tackled vegan protein, bleck, who was I kidding? It looked like a grilled tongue, pale and dotted with spots of herbs that could be contagious. I swore on Billie Ellish to stomp out the chips, especially sour cream and onion, pasta, bread, potatoes, pasta and even churros. Nothing. I still don't feel so good to be honest. I can't remember much from high school, other than I fit into a size six or size seven. I loved my knees in fish net stockings though. I count backwards to fall asleep. I slept a bit, I think. Suddenly I am up again. Texting everyone, I get sloppy drunken replies, "hey girl! 'sup?"; I bolt for the door, catch a tram and the cue is short tonight. My dude knows me by now, laughs and hands me exactly twenty-four churros. We slip into our favourite routine in the alley.

I don't remember getting back to the apartment, how the key got in that little bitty hole just right, but I do recall the Ouzo. In the early morning, there is an unfamiliar gnawing that pushes me to allow you back in. I don't remember us the way you do. You are determined, I'll give you that much. Am I your party tease. Phalanges. We collide; slippery fingers pushing as deep as they can go, sliding against the mushy pink flesh in my throat, one hand on my twenty-four churros, countless beers and Ouzo filled tummy; we work as one. Pushing, pumping in a ritualistic rhythm, I wait for the heated rise, the release of all that's rumbling inside me. I feel the swell in my throat, then like popping a cork, a refreshing release of my own poison from within squirts, then splatters onto and into the toilet leaving me heaving and breathless on the floor. All that my heart, head and body consumed for way too long is no longer my weakness. Once again I am reunited with the newness of our secret.

Kneeling into you without remorse, my fingers slip right in, faint familiarity from another life; like a well chained door, securely fastened, I heed not to re-explore.