Worms (a love story)

He’d (Phil had) already lost eighteen pounds in under two weeks when the urge to kiss her (his sort of girlfriend) deep or maybe even taste her ass was overwhelming, long draughts of milk were needed which he got from the fridge, cold enough so he couldn’t taste it, but staring back from inside his third eye was just that vision of her mouth (or ass) opening and him, sort of, getting in there with his tongue or teeth and just, getting in there moist and…

“Fuck head!” his cohabiting half-rent payer (thing) calls from the sweat he is in on the lounge (too hot to move, too sickened to feel the damp cushion under his groin or realise that in fact it wasn’t his lounge and why the hell did he sit there so long in satin boxer shorts playing playstation, and not even a new playstation, an old one and the game is just repetitive and ugly because it was made so long ago).

“What?!” Phil calls back, some milk sort of sticking to his lips, not blowing a bubble, but a string of mucus-milk twining between his teeth and tongue, splitting and landing on his chin which he just sucks into his mouth as if nothing happened.

“What you drinking?!”

“Milk!”

“Fuck that! Get me a beer!” he ask-demands, as if that’s the way you’re supposed to exist, nothing wrong with that, maintain the status quo, keep the myth alive, keep making each other more and more generic, until in the end young men will just be a walking mass of farts and yells and a few small words that can be belted out quickly with a common group meta-meme that enables them to almost instantly detect an outsider or indentify one that can be integrated into the brood.

The worms in Phil’s intestine struggle for new positions, no food in there now, just some milk coming in on them, washing them but they’re too thick and close to really go anywhere, they just part and let it go through, not chicken or skin or anything else to hang on to. They’d helped him loose those eighteen pounds, well, they’d done all the work really, now they’re making him want to get them another body to live in, makes sense, that’s what they do. He gets a beer like he’s asked, takes it in to the almost naked guy staring at some rabbit-thing jumping on exploding boxes, they perpetual dings when the rabbit-thing collects some spinning discs, the ‘yahoo!’ the rabbit-thing says when it ran fast, puts the beer down.

“Needs an opener”

“Get it yourself” Phil tells him, feels the worms in there, how did they get there (?), looks at his wrist, thin (again), veins run over the hands in thick cords, eyes feel like they can see more, bulging out, seeing behind the ears, can see his curly hair.

“Fucker” says his house-associate sitting with his cock-lump just, there, legs apart, hair on his legs, too much on the inner thigh, way more than the rest of the leg and big dumb white feet, splayed out, toes little dug into the not that thick carpet, now one foot sliding over the let the big toe scratch at the calf muscle. He gets up, Phil can see the damp patch, he grabs his house keys and phone and leaves his living-partner-who-smokes-pot-and-watches-porn-while-Phil-sleeps alone.

Outside, not too bright, blindly thumbing in an ‘L’ (for Lucy) into his phone book (he always liked that is was short for Lucinda and much preferred the name Lucinda but was too self conscious to start calling her that but brought it up continuously and it was too much now and he better just stick to Lucy), because the second letter is ‘U’ he knows he has to scroll up instead of down only two times and hits the green button to call her. She doesn’t pick up so he tries again, it rings out so he calls her home phone, lets it ring two times, then calls her mobile again which this time she answers.

“My fucking house mate,” is the first thing he says, “basically naked and just letting his juices soak a deep stain into my lounge…”

“You mean our lounge”

“Well, yeah, it was our lounge”

“Yours now!”

“Anyway, what are you up to?”

“Nothing, just washed all my clothes, going to hang them out in a few minutes…why?”

“Oh I just got out of my house, couldn’t stand it” his eyes are looking at the road, his hand is holding his phone to his ear, his mind can only see her mouth, wet pink lips, for some reason in his fantasy buckets of saliva just running out, his mind doesn’t explain whether she is wearing clothes or whether these clothes are getting drool on them, this time he does not imagine her asshole, probably because he is outside and there may be children around (somewhere). I’m sure the worms are excited, sending some of their best troopers up through the digestive system to mount an attack from the stomach or maybe dare to start up the trachea. He swallows hard, like he knows what they’re planning.

“So you want to hang out?” she asks casually, thoughtfully…but his uncontrolled mind is just as worm filled as his gut, urging him on.

“Sure,” is all he manages, realising now that there is some heat to the day, “see you in, maybe, twenty minutes, if that’s ok”

“Um, yeah, sure, twenty minutes is ok”

Hungry, bad, this time it’s the smell from a neighbour, a woman preparing a hot lunch for her family, sweet lamb or beef (he can’t tell) and a baked vegetable thing with cheese and something else, ethnic, making it unbearable, notices how much spit he’s producing (and having to swallow), tastes a bit like metal, how long since I’ve had to defecate crosses his mind, forgets it, moves along the block and goes in the crappy little shop on the corner, can get something for less than five bucks, something with meat. He settles on a roast beef sandwich because he knows they make it juicy, rare (pink), and the old Greek lady lays it on thick, always “you so skinny, you need to eat, I make you a good one” and words to that effect, the same old things you’ve heard before, endearing but also pathetic because it’s a dying tradition, this “look at you, you’re skin and bones” olde-worlde thing. Walking and sucking on the thing, in his stomach the worms feed and don’t really share all the way down until there’s nothing left (almost like it should be), thirsty for more milk and has to control himself, standing at the bus stop next to an old woman who patiently waits, staring down the road but has to strain to hold her chin up to see because her back is so terribly hunched forward, thin brown arms rest on her grandparent shopping trolley but she is used to it and only trembling just a little bit and by the time Phil has forgot about the old woman and started thinking about Lucy again there is a bus coming from way down the road. The smell on the bus is terrible, no one seems to notice or they are used to it and its like piss and cigarettes and something else that’s human and not clean and the windows are all closed for the air conditioning and he starts sneezing without tissues and tying to hold it in and when he rubs his nose to get just a little bit of mucus out onto his fingers (and then what?) he notices a small squished white thing in there which isn’t snot but a small worm. Disgusted, he flicks it onto the floor of the bus, becomes one of those creatures that contributes to the general disgust of public transport and public spaces in general, doesn’t care, remembers seeing those white squirming (still alive) things in his faeces, drown them in the toilet bowl, felt good to get rid of them in batches like that, but this, out of the nose, its, too…infiltrated, in his head (head!)…first thought, ‘I hope Lucy doesn’t see them!’ so he swallows what’s in his mouth as a precaution. The smell remains, ten minutes pass, he presses the button, gets off the thing, holds each nostril and blows what was sitting inside the whole ride out onto the footpath, then looks up to see two middle aged men sitting in the bush shelter, looking at him as though he is a disgusting waste of a human (which for those seven seconds or so he concedes he was), looks down at the little spray/puddle, nothing alive, nothing white and small…good, move on, walk the block or so to Lucy’s little apartment, too bad she has to live there but, you know, paying all the rent and bills by yourself, you take what you can get. The strategy of the break/separation/try-and-see-if-maybe-we-should-live-apart-for-a-bit hadn’t really gone as he’d wanted, like he imagined it would, namely, she’d hate living alone and then she’d forgive him (for all the whatever) and they’d just go back to living together but she’s so damn good at living and moving on and being happy but it’s ok, the bus ride isn’t too bad but the idiot-who-he-now-has-to-live-with is. He buzzes and she doesn’t answer and he waits a few beats, a car goes by, buzzes again and she answers through the speaker with ‘yeah sorry I was in the other room, uh, come up’ and the door clicks and he goes in.

Her apartment, although a disgusting orange brick with grey aluminium rimmed windows on the outside, as been transformed inside into a cosy, peaceful haven with soft white curtains gently circulating a lavender-vanilla essence across a room with plump cushions, small tables and a confused variety of artwork that includes landscapes, African sculpture pieces and a large abstract yellow backgrounded thing that really doesn’t match but it ok because it’s over by itself and doesn’t know what to do either. She’s got her weekend attire on, three-quarter length light denim shorts and a thin cotton shirt loosely buttoned, she’s comfortable enough with him to let him see her bra, he feels more relaxed, she doesn’t despise him today (or at least is willing to not despise him for a while).

“You want a drink?’ she asks, heading to the fridge which is in plain site from the front door.

“Yeah” he responds, a little too eager, his mind flashed on milk but he’s never asked for it before, other options come in…beer? water? She saves him with

“I’m making a vodka orange if you want”
“Perfect” but the little guys inside hate alcohol, they wanted more milk or some yoghurt or pork. He watches her make it, at home in her little place, some magazines on her coffee/dinner table, new ones, he didn’t know she read those, was he more of an asshole than he remembered? She hands him and drink and they clink glasses, sip. He smiles at her and she smiles back, puts her drink down and sinks onto the cushions.

“So, what’s been happening?” she asks, cuter than he remembered.

“Well….”

“You’re so thin, my god!”

“Really?” he says, knowing only too well, ‘if I only you could see me naked’ he thinks.

“Yeah, god. I saw you, what, about a week and a half ago…at Mike’s drinks thing?”

“Yeah, yeah”

“What are you, like, working out or whatever”

“No….just, I don’t know, maybe, eating better or something” he joins her on the ground, needs to put some reality back into this conversation, can’t just stand there towering over her while she eyes him over for more signs of early onset anorexia, in his head the word ‘worms’ over and over.

“Yeah, well, eat some meat or something, jesus”

“Don’t worry! It’s all fine…I’ve probably just, you know, its really hot lately and, I don’t eat much, when its hot”

“Yeah well, this place sucks…no air-con”

“At least you’re not living with a fucking douchebag”

And they sit and they talk and it’s pleasant, afternoon pleasant, and she makes more drinks and they sit closer and closer, laughing, talking about her job and how he misses her telling him about the idiots she works with and she says you used to hate that and he says I know but its weird because the things that annoy you are the things that you remember and you notice them when they’re gone and she asks about his baseball team and he says he doesn’t want to play any more, says he’s tired and he mainly talks about his ugly-loud-angry-guy-who-he-has-to-live-with-for-a-few-more-months which is funny at first and after a while a bit boring. Tipsy, a soft sun coming in but not bothering them, they kiss, a nice, soft
I-want-to-get-to-know-you-again kiss, he touches her arm, nothing too intense or purposeful, he feels something in his throat, at the back there, like a trembling and he pulls away from her, but not in a way that alarms her, just, normally, as if that was enough, beautiful enough for the moment, sips his drink. She takes his hand and puts it on her chest, just above where the breasts begin to develop, holds it there and leans back in, that thing in her eyes he’s wanted to see for three weeks. He presses his lips back into hers, not caring now, the things gurgle back there but he lets his tongue find hers and remember each other, fall in love again. As his hands move to the smoothness of her breasts, he lets his fingers gently brush over the lace of the bra, respectful, wants her to know he isn’t there just to fuck her, but then the image, her ass, tongue, the things in his throat coming, he sucks at her mouth, dives a hand under her bra cup, she isn’t resisting so he takes a nipple, pinches it, too much saliva between them, she’s searching his mouth with her tongue, he lets her, the little things triumphant, past the tonsils, onto the tongue, he tries to swallow but they’re slippery, driven, he lets himself go, feels his erection coming (are there worms in his semen too? will he find out?), she pulls back, unbuttoning her shirt, he closes his mouth, not sure of the things are crushed between his teeth or if he’s just swooning, imagining the worst. They come together, more serious, she has her top off and is working on his pants, in his mind those white wriggling things, are they inside her already? should I stop? He offers her the rest of his drink, she swallows it and he feels better, moves to unbutton her jean shorts, he pulls them while she wriggles free, no underwear this time (not like her he thinks…what has she been up to?…forget it now!) and he can’t help himself but dive in to her vagina, face first, she squeals a little but he’s heard that before, sucking and licking now, something urging him on, he ignores the causes, want to go on (really, wants to flip her over and taste her ass, still that problem, damn creatures), moves his face away for a minute…and…then the horror, five or six tiny white things, wriggling on her vagina, some sort of inside a bit, he reaches up to wipe them away, gets a  few of them, frantically opens the vagina (gynaecologist style), pokes a finger in to try and pull (drag?) out any other guys trying to make there way in, this of course she notices straight away, trying to half sit up now and lean forward with

“what’s wrong?”

“er, nothing, nothing, just, you know…”

“well, stop poking around in there you weirdo”

“sorry, sorry…”

He leaves it alone, can’t see any for now, move on, he raises himself up, moves to her side, and uses his hand instead, moves in to kiss her

“wait…what’s that on your chin?” she asks, looking closer

“What? Where?” he replies, stopping all activity now, rubbing across his lips with the back of his hand. She reaches up and picks a single (or maybe even half!) worm off his chin, onto her fingertip, takes a closer inspection.

“It’s a little white thing…what?” he offers, casually, like, you know, some sex thing, probably from your vagina if anything, right? (all that is in the tone)

“I don’t know…looks, like, a worm or something”

“What? A worm? No way…” should he lean in for a kiss? No, because she is still studying the thing, fascinated, really and just as she is about to dismiss it and make love to this sort-of ex-boyfriend, just at that exact moment the little fella spoils it all by flicking his body rapidly in half, a quick bent switching motion, distressed, a fish out of water, instantly ending their affair in the most disgusting way possible. With a horrified expression she flicks the now confirmed worm off her finger and immediately checks herself for signs of infections, a much more brutal doctor than he could ever be, leaving him to stand, pull on his clothes and wait for the verdict…maybe she would think it was her? maybe they could forget about this and go back to the pleasant afternoon drink? She plunges her fingers in and out of her vagina, checks them maybe four or five times and when satisfied she is ‘worm free’, is able to look at him again.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she yells, not at all unjustifiably, pulling her shorts back up in an act of protective defence.

“I didn’t know?! I was just feeling….I thought…”

“What?! You just lose, like, twenty pounds for no reason?! Holy shit get some pills! Sick bastard!!”

“Oh god, I’m…I’m so sorry Lucy, shit…that’s so fucking, gross”

“I know!”

“Oh shit…”

One last worm left alive on the carpet, tries with all its might to drag itself across the dry surface. Where to? Who knows.