My friend told me that a man once fucked her with a rifle. She wasn't sure if it was loaded, which added to the charm. So sometimes when I can't sleep, I imagine a man - from New Orleans, as she said, into voodoo of course, who used to be a rock star, naturally - fucking me with a rifle.
Maybe that will put me to sleep.
I've been awake for 10 years.
Sometimes I think about babies or kittens or what to eat tomorrow. Or someone lying in bed next to me, not holding me still exactly, but weighing me down, and encouraging me to stay still because I don't want to wake him.
He's no one specific (or who he is changes). These days he's you, but he's always big, big, much bigger than I am. And heavy. So heavy I can't move him, so I just lie there, trying to trick myself into falling asleep so I don't wake him.
Maybe, she thinks, I should get one of those full-body pillows from Wal-Mart. It's like a body; it would weigh her down. When her sister was six, she always wanted to sleep with the Holly Hobbie doll because it was the biggest and it tricked her into thinking Daddy was in bed with her. But that was her sister, not her. She's not a fucking pervert, you know.
It's not that she isn't pretty. The truth is that whenever there was an actual man in the bed (as opposed to the idea of him, heavy), it was worse. She didn't sleep at all. They were in her way. She could hear them dreaming. Or worse, she could hear them breathing.
Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up. Stop breathing.
I hate you. I hate you and I hate the cats. I hate you all while you sleep. So full of yourselves with your stupid, arrogant sleeping.
I can look at you, you know. I can fuck you with staring. I can stare at you, I can take a picture of your lips and stare at you and you won't know. I can love you while you're sleeping, and you won't know. I can stare at you and I don't have to be coy or smile to prove my oh-so-clever distance. (I'm like a Frigidaire, I'm like the Fonz.)
I can just stare and stare and think to myself, "Please. Please." And you won't know. And in the morning I'll be funny and suck your cock, but I will have loved you for that second, that second when I was staring at your lips and touching your hair, and you will have slept through it all.
I don't really remember the first time I slept with you.
Not fucked you, because we did that a lot - on the counter (you were tall, I was easily lifted), on the couch, on the kitchen table, against the bookshelf, sometimes on the bed. I wish I remembered more.
I remember that you touched me all night and I didn't hate it, which I usually do. I remember you lay on your side away from me and reached your arm behind to grab my thigh.
I remember I liked it. I remember I liked your hands. (A man's hands are important - the last man had little, reedy claws, and I could barely touch them even though he was sweet and had a well-stocked bar made of teak.)
Then there was the last time we ever slept together, with your head buried in the back of my neck.
I wish I had known it was the last time. I would have stayed awake not to miss it. I would have stolen your T-shirt.
I've been awake for 10 years.
My friend once took one of my sleeping pills on a plane to Japan and didn't wake up the whole time.
I wish I could sleep like that. I wish I could sleep with you again. Don't ever read this.