Raw.

By Lua and Alice.

February someday, 2008.

GREGORY: Fired.

Old women and their lipsticks. Fuck. I hate it when they smack their lips. Especially that saggy-breasted one over by the really, really rusting dryer. All the other ones are really rusting, but this one has taken the decay too far. This woman has dingy orange lipstick on and keeps licking and picking at it like she's hungry for some maybelline shit. It looks chalky on her. God, chalky lipstick that is just a bit too heavy in some parts and a little too light in others drives me crazy. She's reading a tabloid and making disgusting faces every time she turns the page, like a really rich woman would scorn in the face of her poor daughter-in-law marrying her well brought-up son. I particularly hate this woman with her RE-ELECT BUSH sweatshirt. American, obviously. She's a cow. I wouldn't fuck her in a million years. Well, I'd let her blow me. But, then again, maybe she'd make those sick-ass faces and I wouldn't be able to take that. Even for a blow job.

Jane blew me once. Blew me. That's awkward to write. Blow me. Blew me. Blow me. Anyway, she's the owner of this godforsaken place and one time we were in the back sorting out some paperwork and her breasts are fucking huge and I couldn't help but massage her back and then one thing led to another until she blew me on top of the new washing machine. I've never seen her so ravenous. It wasn't a good blowjob so a week later when she kissed me I told her I couldn't be in a relationship with someone twenty-four years my major. I was scared she'd fire me but she just shrugged and flipped her disgusting frizzy hair and walked away. I shrugged too. At least I didn't get fired.

Anyway, this fucking Bush whore is approaching me.

Okay so she wanted to see if I had extra detergent. She said she knew me from somewhere:

"I've seen you before haven't I, son?" she said. Lips are disgusting.

"No," I told her. I'm an arse.

"YES! I think I know your grandmother! Theresa Garrett?" she said incredulously. Fuck.

"No, sorry, my name is Lars Larson."

"Is it? Oh. I'm sorry. Well, tell her I said hi, you hear?" she smiled and her lips and her teeth and jesus.

"I don't know this woman."

"GARRETT, GET IN HERE!" that was Jane. Fucking frizz-haired whore.

So that was twenty minutes ago and the Bush whore is gone. She glared at me when she left and smacked her disgusting-ass lips at me. Didn't have to go that far. The fact that I thought of blowjobs and she knows my grandmother is just wrong on so many levels and colors and shades. I hate my job.

The neighbors complain about the noises above. James is such a good fucking band, man. Totally underrated. My iPod is so loud and this young football player with his fucking ball is staring at me. Fuck you, man. I'm thinking about Emma.

"Gregory Garrett. Never thought I'd see you in here," I turn around and it's my old rugby coach. Fuck you too.

"Mr. Fatass is that you?" I slur. He used to pick on my size.

"Sorry?"

"I said, 'Mr. Fallon, is that you?'" I asked with a smile.

"Yes! Little Greggy, how are you bloody doing?" he put his hands on his wide, wide hips. His hair was silvery brown, a sick combination. I hoped that wouldn't happen to me.

"Fine."

"What've you been doing? Switching your cleats in for detergent?" his laughter is so loud, my God.

"You could say that, sir." Smirk.

"Good, good. Working. I'm proud of ya, son." Why is everyone calling me son today?

"That's right," I shrugged.

"Ok, well, just picking up my kid. Wyatt, let's go!" he yelled over to the young football player. Of course.

They walk away and I can see his son getting as fat as his father already. Signed, Greg.

EMMA: Nothing.

I stepped on my cat going downstairs again in the middle of the night. Apparently dad locked the windows because he knows. He knows and the looks he gives me in the middle of the dinner when I'm reaching for salt or shit just makes me feel like he's screaming at me until I'm raw. I'm always quiet here, and I'm just longing for something. Writing something. He took me to Starbucks because I've been begging and what I wanted was to write on his laptop, but he didn't mention it, so I didn't either and then he blew up at me in the middle of the store because I should have asked. He splashed his drink down the front of his shirt and we had to leave because I knew I was going to cry but fuck. I hate his fat arse and when I go to bed late I can hear my parents fucking. I watched this movie last night until 11.00 and they were already all over each other and I couldn't even get down the hall to my bedroom without my mother screaming his name. I think he knows I'm there. The floors squeak and it's just everywhere that he's watching me. I wonder what Greg is doing.

We did it last night? He knew it was my first time and I don't want to talk about it anymore. When I got home I sat on the washing machine, because I didn't even feel anything with him. - Emma.

God this doorknob is cold. Just touching it for a second drives a dark current through my body. I walked towards the middle of the room. I don't know how much I can trust this place. It's Greg's brother's flat that he no longer uses because he's at an internship in Spain or some shit. Anyway, as if yesterday wasn't scary enough. I don't know why he asked me over here again. It's like I don't want to have sex, sleep, or whatever else you want to call it, ever again. Call me naive but Greg is so difficult to please. Not necessarily sexually, I mean, I don't know that yet. But I like him a lot and it feels so wrong that sex didn't feel right with him. I thought it would fix things? But what is there really to fix? I don't want to have that lack of reassurance again. I don't want to feel that insecure again. I hate that he turned around afterwards and sighed so deeply. Like all I do is disappoint. I now heard a key at the door. Oh, God.

GREGORY: Blink.

Thank God I missed dinner. Didn't think I could take any more conversation, not about anything, especially now that my wanker brothers know about Emma. They won't fucking lay off, so I went right upstairs and kicked around my own dirty laundry. Did my parents really think I wanted to clean my own shit after watching people do it all day? God. I'd rather pick up a rather fucking whore. I sat down on my bed with my head in my hands. It still smelled like sex. We only did it yesterday, and I don't think my mind is even working the right way. I should not be thinking of her this often. Mentioning.

I flipped over on my bed and groaned. Fucking hell, I should have been at our meeting place five minutes ago and my parents were sure going to notice the lack of their most brightest and if possible, most testosterone hoarding son soon. I didn't bother taking any, I wanted to get our shit done and finished with. She couldn't give me anything I hadn't already gotten. And Jesus, that last time was pathetic. I couldn't get her out of the flat fast enough. Not like she was taking her time either. They can fucking blink their eyes at me all they want, but I don't want to give a shit about them in the morning. My stomach growled and I was practically racing out the door.

I didn't get the notion that it was freezing out here until I had to pause for breath. The reason why I invited her back was so beyond me, I couldn't fucking believe it came out of my own damn mouth. I blew my smoky breath on my hands and rubbed them together; fiddling to make sure I still had the key and thanking the lords that no one knew where the hell I disappeared to.

She wasn't so great last night, and I could feel that she was trembling the whole way through. Neither of us were pleased with the outcome but she just was something I couldn't catch. I wanted to try again until it was in my hands, I had gotten past that level, and could breathe and think again. I raced up the brick stairs to the first level as quick as possible, so glad that she wasn't there waiting outside until I opened the door and shit. I peered inside and she was already there. God I felt awful for reasons that escaped me and I shut the door behind me quickly. She was sitting on the bed wearing something that I suppose was sexy, but it flew way over my head. I wanted to somehow apologize, and I knew that this time, she could tell things were different, and I didn't want to feel that way but they were. Especially when I had kicked off my shoes already and was sitting beside her.

Our breathing was really heaving, the looking at each other and knowing what the hell was about to happen scared the fuck out of us, but it exhilarated me so fast. I kissed her first. It was determination that made me stick my tongue in her mouth but she wasn't so birdlike that I had thought and hated the first time. She raked her hands through my blonde hair and she scraped the top of my mouth with the tip of her tongue and I wanted to fucking scream. She was taking me for a ride. I wanted to see her brown eyes, and my hands were going all over the place.

She stopped me. I sure saw her large eyes now.

"Gregory," she rarely called me by my full name.

"What?" I sounded impatient. I didn't mean to.

"Are we okay?" she asked.

"What does it seem like?" I motioned to our making out.

"I just...Whatever," she shrugged.

"What?"

She stared me in the eyes like all I did was disappoint. But then she started unbuttoning her blouse. And I instinctively zipped off my pants. She then sat on my lap and kissed me again. I knew where this would go. I hoped I was satisfied this time. I hoped she didn't look at me like that again.

EMMA: Speak.

He was kissing me like he was asking for it. Well, he always asked for it. I wasn't sure if I really had wanted to unbutton my blouse or not. Not really. I don't know anymore. I don't want to have sex again. But I know I should. I always do what I should. I just wish I could make him see how staring at his back really makes me feel.

If I could speak that out loud, if I could even fucking tell him he made me feel lower than anyone ever. I wanted to make him cry from some sort of pain or punch me in the face so I could hold that against him later. I want to feel some sort of emotion from this pervert. Or for him to call me a whore so I could tell that I catalogued somewhere in his mind of porn and old ladies bending over. God. I should not have come here in the first place.

"Em?" he said as he kissed my neck. I was holding his head in my arms.

"Mhm?"

"I'm glad you're here," he said, voice muffled. I don't know.

"Me too."

He pushed down on my shoulder and I fell over, and his hands were everywhere.