The Sweet Sensation of Sin (Short story)

The Sweet Sensation of Sin

By David Barajas Jr

         She came into my life destine to leave it "

        

        

         The moment was perfectly flawed. You see, that was her beauty. She was a faded dream, she was a forgotten yesterday, and she was a fulfilled fantasy.

         She seemed to be so. And I to her perhaps?

         It was a dull October night and the breeze shooed away the summer air as darkness collapsed upon the day like eyelids being drawn down by a daze. Thursday? Yea, it was a Thursday afternoon. Then the phone rang " ring, ring, ring…

Hello?

-Hey David, what’s up?

Nothing much Carl. And yourself?

-Are you busy tonight?

Not really, why?

-Do you want to go see a couple

of punk bands with me at a bar?

Which bar?

-Thorny’s, it’s in Spring Valley Lake.

Sure, I can use a night of drinking.

-Alright, cool! Be ready by six. We’ll

pick you up then, so wait outside.

Who’s we?

-Me and my friend, she’s the one driving us.

Alrighty.

Click.

         So off we went. The alcoholic artista, the stoner psychologist, and the writer were all on our way for what seemed to be a simple night of drinking.

         The performance took place in a small room in the back of the bar. Once we entered the back room, passing the bar and the kitchen, I noticed the first band setting up their equipment and I couldn’t help but to laugh at the scene. There was a pool table centered in the room, there was an air hockey table pushed aside to the left wall, and there was a miniature basketball game pushed to the back wall. This was a kid’s play room, but I guess you have to start somewhere right?

         The band was taking quite a while to get it going, so the psychologist and I headed back out front for a smoke break, while the artista watched the band set up shop, probably reminiscing about his old playing days as a drummer.

         After the hot box, we stepped out of the car and watched the smoke rise up like it would have done seeping up through a manhole. The psychologist swiveled her Burt’s Bees, blue berries and dark chocolate, chapstick around her lips and asked, “Are you ready?” “I’m always ready,” I jabbed back. “Great answer, I like that,” she submitted as she intertwined her left arm with my right like I had the honor of being her escort for the evening. I didn’t mind it at all.

         Moments after, I grabbed, I opened, and I held the front door of the bar for her as she gallopaded towards the bar. I then approached smoothly as she ordered two shots of gin and a pitcher of Red Stripe.

Are you trying to get me drunk?

If so, that would be supper!

         She smirked and told me to shut up and drink! And so we did. We devoured those shots, that pitcher, and then another set like two fat kids with one slice of cake between them both.

         “Okay, let’s go to the back. I hear the band playing already.” “C'mon, what are you waiting for?” she yelled with excitement as I was quite oblivious, but I still had miles to go before I met my drinking limit. I then placed my empty glass on the bar and carried along towards the performance.

         The band was already six songs in, I was told by the psychologist, who was told by the artista. I can't quite recall the name of the first band, or any of the bands; although, they did play halfway decent to gain some recognition.

         “What's up? Are you good?” I asked Carl as the psychologist walked passed him with no apparent interest. If I couldn't tell, the artista was madly in-love the psychologist and who could blame him. She was amazing!

         “Did you see that David? She passed by me within a foot, but she was a mile away,” the artista spoke onto me. “F**k man, I need drink,” he exclaimed! “Yea man, fetch me one too yea?” I deliberately asked as the artista stormed off from the back room to the front where the bar was at. (The Artista Exits)

         I could smell the desire in the artista’s eyes when he gazed into hers and I smelled the same desire every single time she gazed upon mine. I wanted to taste the sweet sensation of sin that this night was willing to supply. Even if it meant putting aside the artista’s wants and needs for my own.

         As the third band approached onto the stage, the artsista was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had vanished for good, probably in despair with my drink because the psychologist paid no mind to his heart. Moments after, she slithered towards me one step at a time and grabbed my hand and said, “Hey…” My heart began to sink like a naval ship stricken by a torpedo. You know, she just had that persona where it didn’t matter what she said because whatever she did say " I was a slave to. Her vixen eyes had clouds in them, as did mine from the marijuana smoke, but it was more than obvious and it was more than clear that I wanted her to see the interest I held in her and I made her aware of it, but not before asking, “Do you know what’s up with Carl? “Oh poor Carl, he’s been trying to get into my pants for years now, but that’s not ever going to happen for that sap. He blew his chance like birthday candles,” she answered. There was my opening, my chance, my guilt free moment of pursuing her heart for just a night in bliss.

         She stood there holding my hand as I scanned her from her toes to her head. Her turquoise high heels went well with her turquoise, knee high, socks which went well with her death, black dress. “This is what a feminist looks like,” is what my shirt read. She told me that’s why I captured her curiosity. Because I wasn’t afraid to look like an idiot…

Why did you wear that shirt you doofus?

It seemed funny to do so.

So how old are you David?

Mmm, I’m twenty five. Why?

Just wondering, you look much younger;

anyhow, aren’t you going to ask how old I am?

I get that a lot,

And no, not really.

And why not?

Because, I sort of enjoy the mystique of you, you know?

So don’t spoil it for me, hehe.

You are sooo weird!

I know right!

        We stood talking like drunken fools, for hours it seemed, as time came to an awkward silence. I didn’t mind it at all. I rather enjoyed it. To ponder on what she was pondering. She ordered two more shots of gin and just before we threw them back she told me that she was taking me home tonight, but not to my bed, hers in fact. She knew that I was the type to fall in-love with a woman after the first six minutes or six months, so she told me not to. She said she wanted to play me like the violin all night ‘till the strings wore out and that was all. Surely I wanted her to, so surely I allowed her to.

         She pressed her blue berry and dark chocolate lips against mine. The bond of this kiss concealed a bigger motive behind her actions that will soon be revealed in a matter that was quite hilarious now that I think back on it.

         We then drove off to her place at 11:11pm, she then told me to lie on the bed while she showered off the stench of the bar, and I then took off my shoes and then tuned the tube to Sports Center for a recap of the games that day while I awaited her exit from the shower.

         After her baptism, she walked out of the shower naked, only covering her naked lips with some naked red lipstick. She was ready to be capped in sin once again after cleansing herself. As things were heating up, her eight year old son knock on her door, walked in the room, and then cried about a nightmare he had. She was a mom. I never slept with a mom. It was pretty wired, but there was no way I was going to escape her web and when was this ever going to happen again? So of course I let it play out. She told her son to go to bed and I then left hers right when the sun was getting ready to rise again. She used me that night for all the nights she was used by him. I didn’t mind it. Did her husband? For me, it was just another one night stand, just another walk of shame to chalk up to the list, just another woman who won’t be there when the smoke clears.

        

        

         The moment was perfectly flawed. You see, that was her beauty. She was a faded dream, she was a forgotten yesterday, and she was a fulfilled fantasy.

         She seemed to be so. And I to her perhaps?

         It was a dull October night and the breeze shooed away the summer air as darkness collapsed upon the day like eyelids being drawn down by a daze. Thursday? Yea, it was a Thursday afternoon. Then the phone rang " ring, ring, ring…

Hello?

-Hey David, what’s up?

Nothing much Carl. And yourself?

-Are you busy tonight?

Not really, why?

-Do you want to go see a couple

of punk bands with me at a bar?

Which bar?

-Thorny’s, it’s in Spring Valley Lake.

Sure, I can use a night of drinking.

-Alright, cool! Be ready by six. We’ll

pick you up then, so wait outside.

Who’s we?

-Me and my friend, she’s the one driving us.

Alrighty.

Click.

         So off we went. The alcoholic artista, the stoner psychologist, and the writer were all on our way for what seemed to be a simple night of drinking.

         The performance took place in a small room in the back of the bar. Once we entered the back room, passing the bar and the kitchen, I noticed the first band setting up their equipment and I couldn’t help but to laugh at the scene. There was a pool table centered in the room, there was an air hockey table pushed aside to the left wall, and there was a miniature basketball game pushed to the back wall. This was a kid’s play room, but I guess you have to start somewhere right?

         The band was taking quite a while to get it going, so the psychologist and I headed back out front for a smoke break, while the artista watched the band set up shop, probably reminiscing about his old playing days as a drummer.

         After the hot box, we stepped out of the car and watched the smoke rise up like it would have done seeping up through a manhole. The psychologist swiveled her Burt’s Bees, blue berries and dark chocolate, chapstick around her lips and asked, “Are you ready?” “I’m always ready,” I jabbed back. “Great answer, I like that,” she submitted as she intertwined her left arm with my right like I had the honor of being her escort for the evening. I didn’t mind it at all.

         Moments after, I grabbed, I opened, and I held the front door of the bar for her as she gallopaded towards the bar. I then approached smoothly as she ordered two shots of gin and a pitcher of Red Stripe.

Are you trying to get me drunk?

If so, that would be supper!

         She smirked and told me to shut up and drink! And so we did. We devoured those shots, that pitcher, and then another set like two fat kids with one slice of cake between them both.

         “Okay, let’s go to the back. I hear the band playing already.” “C'mon, what are you waiting for?” she yelled with excitement as I was quite oblivious, but I still had miles to go before I met my drinking limit. I then placed my empty glass on the bar and carried along towards the performance.

         The band was already six songs in, I was told by the psychologist, who was told by the artista. I can't quite recall the name of the first band, or any of the bands; although, they did play halfway decent to gain some recognition.

         “What's up? Are you good?” I asked Carl as the psychologist walked passed him with no apparent interest. If I couldn't tell, the artista was madly in-love the psychologist and who could blame him. She was amazing!

         “Did you see that David? She passed by me within a foot, but she was a mile away,” the artista spoke onto me. “F**k man, I need drink,” he exclaimed! “Yea man, fetch me one too yea?” I deliberately asked as the artista stormed off from the back room to the front where the bar was at. (The Artista Exits)

         I could smell the desire in the artista’s eyes when he gazed into hers and I smelled the same desire every single time she gazed upon mine. I wanted to taste the sweet sensation of sin that this night was willing to supply. Even if it meant putting aside the artista’s wants and needs for my own.

         As the third band approached onto the stage, the artsista was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had vanished for good, probably in despair with my drink because the psychologist paid no mind to his heart. Moments after, she slithered towards me one step at a time and grabbed my hand and said, “Hey…” My heart began to sink like a naval ship stricken by a torpedo. You know, she just had that persona where it didn’t matter what she said because whatever she did say " I was a slave to. Her vixen eyes had clouds in them, as did mine from the marijuana smoke, but it was more than obvious and it was more than clear that I wanted her to see the interest I held in her and I made her aware of it, but not before asking, “Do you know what’s up with Carl? “Oh poor Carl, he’s been trying to get into my pants for years now, but that’s not ever going to happen for that sap. He blew his chance like birthday candles,” she answered. There was my opening, my chance, my guilt free moment of pursuing her heart for just a night in bliss.

         She stood there holding my hand as I scanned her from her toes to her head. Her turquoise high heels went well with her turquoise, knee high, socks which went well with her death, black dress. “This is what a feminist looks like,” is what my shirt read. She told me that’s why I captured her curiosity. Because I wasn’t afraid to look like an idiot…

Why did you wear that shirt you doofus?

It seemed funny to do so.

So how old are you David?

Mmm, I’m twenty five. Why?

Just wondering, you look much younger;

anyhow, aren’t you going to ask how old I am?

I get that a lot,

And no, not really.

And why not?

Because, I sort of enjoy the mystique of you, you know?

So don’t spoil it for me, hehe.

You are sooo weird!

I know right!

        We stood talking like drunken fools, for hours it seemed, as time came to an awkward silence. I didn’t mind it at all. I rather enjoyed it. To ponder on what she was pondering. She ordered two more shots of gin and just before we threw them back she told me that she was taking me home tonight, but not to my bed, hers in fact. She knew that I was the type to fall in-love with a woman after the first six minutes or six months, so she told me not to. She said she wanted to play me like the violin all night ‘till the strings wore out and that was all. Surely I wanted her to, so surely I allowed her to.

         She pressed her blue berry and dark chocolate lips against mine. The bond of this kiss concealed a bigger motive behind her actions that will soon be revealed in a matter that was quite hilarious now that I think back on it.

         We then drove off to her place at 11:11pm, she then told me to lie on the bed while she showered off the stench of the bar, and I then took off my shoes and then tuned the tube to Sports Center for a recap of the games that day while I awaited her exit from the shower.

         After her baptism, she walked out of the shower naked, only covering her naked lips with some naked red lipstick. She was ready to be capped in sin once again after cleansing herself. As things were heating up, her eight year old son knock on her door, walked in the room, and then cried about a nightmare he had. She was a mom. I never slept with a mom. It was pretty wired, but there was no way I was going to escape her web and when was this ever going to happen again? So of course I let it play out. She told her son to go to bed and I then left hers right when the sun was getting ready to rise again. She used me that night for all the nights she was used by him. I didn’t mind it. Did her husband? For me, it was just another one night stand, just another walk of shame to chalk up to the list, just another woman who won’t be there when the smoke clears.

Reviews

[Connor Dillivan]

The story is, overall, rather unclear. There seems no purpose to it, aside from a bunch of friends going out and getting drunk, followed by a one night stand. All fairly typical. To add to a lacking plot, the characters themselves were not clearly defined and lacked depth. I am unclear as to who, exactly, the "stoned psychologist" is or why that is significant to the story. I get the sense that the ending was supposed to have some sort of punch, as though discovering that the woman he had slept with was a mother was supposed to be some sort of stunning event rife with significance. If so, you undercut it by emphasizing how so very mundane this experience is, "just another walk of shame to chalk up to the list". Your prose is at times poetic and at times vernacular. "It was a dull October night and the breeze shooed away the summer air as darkness collapsed upon the day like eyelids being drawn down by a daze" is followed by, "Yea, it was Thursday." Not only is your story stylistically mismatched, your formatting is as well. Dialogue is sometimes center spaced and at times wrapped inside a paragraph. The inconsistency in your style is jarring. Although I feel like the story has some promise, it defintiely requires some work.

[sinNsincerity]

It's Creative Nonfiction. There are no rules or format when writing C.N.F.
I appreciate your review and all... =D

[Connor Dillivan]

I know there might not be any formal rules for formatting C.N.F. It makes reading easier when an author maintains a consistent style of formatting though. And no problem. I enjoyed your story.