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:D
The STALKER
Author: Mushroom
The Stalker's POV
Rating: ^___^
Summary: A woman fantasizes about two boys who are unfortunately too engrossed with each other to care. And she'll think of anything just to 'straighten' them up. (Hahahah, another pun.)
Note: This is supposed to be the last filler, but it felt right to be next.



I am a full-fledged woman. I have breasts that sprung from my chest when I turned thirteen, painted fingernails with hot pink polish, a high-pitched voice and a fascination for mini-skirts. I have a lot of friends who share the same ideals with me, who think that computer games are for geeks and that curls are best worn loose.

Oh, and I like boys.

I am a woman, not a feminist. Feminists are women who are conceited and deny their true calling. They are just bitter because they know no guy would ever pay attention to them, and they use sarcasm as barriers to hide themselves from the world. I mean, why do girls choose their outfits carefully and make themselves look beautiful? Women don’t make themselves beautiful for self-acceptance or the approval of other friends. Please, what is the point in THAT? They dress up and meet the world for MEN. I don’t waste my time denying that I don’t appreciate their presence. In fact, I throw myself at them. I want them. They’re the only things I really want in this universe (okay, so there’s outfits and reality shows, but they come right after in my list). My aunt had a lot of boy toys, and she was delirious but happy. Men are here to make me feel special, and I am here to make them feel pleasure. There’s no time for useless, fucking defiance. I am a woman. I have desires. And I desire men. Isn’t that what everyone wants? To be desired?

They’re lucky someone like me exists to put things in order.

Being a woman with desires, I entered this company that specialized in creating drafts and layouts for the advertising industry. The thought of being surrounded by really cute businessmen and artists sent involuntary shivers throughout my entire body. When I entered, however, I was devastated and disappointed. The men who worked in the design office were a bunch of sleazy losers who burped loudly, scratched their crotches absently, and played Warcraft when our boss wasn’t looking. Their cubicles were messy and stuffed with all sorts of junk, and as a result I couldn’t help but curse the entire race of men during those long, hard weeks of work. I almost lost faith in the male species until a nice turn of events occurred.

A new guy came in the office. He had long, red hair that was tied in a ponytail, sorta grayish eyes (I peered in really close) covered with insanely long eyelashes, and a really pale complexion with a few freckles. As soon as he was introduced to his cubicle he started drafting with such elegant strokes and finesse; that was when I knew I was in love. He looked so fragile and tortured that I wanted to hug him to death.

There are a few tidbits I learned about him, and I hurriedly wrote them down on my journal:

1. Apparently he likes peeling bananas and eating them slowly.
2. He bites his lip when in deep thought. OhgodIwanttojustnibblethoselips.
3. He writes poetry. As in really long, really good poetry.
4. He owns a skateboard and can do really fascinating tricks with it.
5. His favorite color is orange.
6. He can play the guitar.
7. He likes talking with this guy on the phone (most probably his brother) and screaming insults at him. Then he hangs up and smiles.
8. He has the ability to disappear without a trace after work.
9. …He has red marks all over his neck and shoulders that suspiciously looked like…hickies. But HAHAHAH, I know it’s impossible for him to have those, maybe they’re just bite marks from some unknown house insect I haven’t heard of yet.

All these I learned through keen observation, various research materials and endless searching for more clues about his identity whenever he was out on a break. I opened all his files from an e-mail addressed to him and saw pictures of him playing the guitar and the skateboard. I tried following him home but he just vanishes like thin air all the time.

The poet was PERFECT for me. He had all the qualities I looked for in a man: someone who writes poetry, plays an instrument, broods around a lot and has this intense disliking for a sibling. I find a man with resentment towards another as something really sexy.

Hate makes a man hot. I was in love with a man full of hate.

***

Unfortunately, the poet was too damn shy. I tried talking to him but he only responded with a “Mmmm.” and walked away. I wore blouses with plunging necklines and skirts with slits, but he continued repeating those fucking quadruple M’s with more rush and anxiety. I was determined to find out why he ignored my advances. Were my boobs too big for his tastes? Damn. His ignoring my advances was a cute bonus, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I had a reputation to protect.

I did the most practical thing. I asked around.

“He’s kinda shy, isn’t he?” I asked my officemate. Said officemate looked shocked; it was the first time I actually approached him. Why would I approach him when he had the worst taste in neckties in the planet? “It seems like he doesn’t care about women and all that. I mean, look at you los—people.” I nodded my head towards the fifth cubicle where all the other guys were currently surfing for porn images. My handsome poet shared conversations with all the other geeks but refused to share the same interests with them.

“Yes.” He replied with a gulp.

I looked at him squarely. Intimidating, that was me. “Do you know why?!”

‘Officemate’ looked abashed. “Yes.”

Impatience swelled inside me. This guy was getting on my nerves. “So?! WHY?!”

The man gulped slowly, then…“Hehasaboyfriend.”

My mind reeled. A WHAT?! “You LIAR!” I screamed.

He shook his head crossly “I’m not…he really d-does!!!”

It was a good thing the other freaks didn’t notice us because they were hooting loudly, or else I would’ve kicked their inflated groins if they made a peep. I glowered at the officemate in front of me. “WHO IS IT?! Don’t tell me it’s one of you…one of you SHITHEADS!” I imagined one of my fat, greasy officemates kissing the poet and felt bile rise up my throat.

The man looked indignant. “Excuse me, I’m NOT a shithead!” I glowered at him again and he whimpered, the fine ass. “It’s true. I always see them go home together. He picks him up somewhere, then drives him home. I saw them.”

“What makes you so damn sure that he’s not his brother or relative or FRIEND?!” I stamped my foot, grinded my teeth, and poked his chest with my powerful index finger.

“T-They HELD HANDS! As far as I know, even friends or relatives don’t HOLD HANDS! And have you seen those marks on his neck?! OBVIOUSLY THEY’RE LOVE MARKS, RIGHT?!” The man started becoming hysterical, flapping his arms and stomping his right foot, while all the other idiots looked over with grim faces. “THEY LIVE TOGETHER IN A FLAT BY THEMSELVES AND HAVE BLOODY SEX WITH EACH OTHER, GODDAMNIT!”

He inhaled loudly and lost his balance, toppled over the table, and finally landed on the floor face-first. I stared as the others tried to help him up.

I was so dumb. How could I have not noticed? The guy he constantly exchanged telephone conversations with, the guy who picks him up after work…my love had a DRIVER as a LOVER! Fuck all drivers who pick up my potential love interest!

That made me sick. I had to see this driver and stab him to death, lock him in the car trunk and push the car towards the open sea. Then I’ll have the redhead to myself, we will get married and have ten children, and he will adore me passionately and kiss my toes. BOYFRIENDS ARE SO OUT OF THE PICTURE.

Our boss peeked from his office. “Who had sex with whom?”

I smiled at her. “No one.” I walked towards the helpless man and pulled him up viciously.

My poet is NOT having sex with anyone else as long as I’m in this world.

***

I spotted my victim beside the van where he hostages my soon-to-be husband. I knew where it was because I threatened to slit my officemate’s throat if he did not give me the exact features and plate number of the van the shit owned. The van with the plate number MUSH-18 was waiting near the coffee shop, and the fucking driver was smoking nearby.

I steadied my arms; it was not yet time to strangle him. Being a woman with desires and the ability to kill with precision, I approached him cautiously and shouted. “HEY YOU!”

The shit turned around.

But he wasn’t shit. In fact, he was the MOST ATTRACTIVE, MOST HANDSOME piece of SHIT I have ever seen. Black lustrous hair. Emerald eyes. A fair complexion and a nose that made my ears wiggle. His style wasn’t so bad either; a turtleneck topped with a trench coat that even matched his car. The driver was also very tall. He looked at me with what seemed like complete adoration, and noticed my uniform. “Oh, so you work in the same company as him.”

Him? Who him? Who was him?

His eyes flashed. “Don’t tell me…did something bad happen? Is he still busy?” The guy looked worried. “He is kinda late today.”

I was in love with a man full of worry. Oh yeah, the boyfriend. I eyed the van and imagined myself in the passenger seat, side-by-side with the driver as he leaned in for a kiss…“I don’t think he’s coming anymo—“

As if on cue, the poet came walking down the lane in his infamous fisherman’s cap and orange sweater. God, he was the hottest man alive when he wore that sweater; he looked like he was on fire. The poet looked so damn good. The driver smiled widely. His smile was so fine, too. There were two really hot guys, both standing beside me, as if claiming me. I was being desired. Fuck y’all.

“You’re late.” The driver said sulkily, but it was obvious that he was playing. His voice was so deep and cool, like a disc jockey’s.

The other boy sighed. “Sorry. The boss was yelling at me again.” His voice was soft and gentle, like a movie star’s.

The driver reached out a hand to pull him closer. “ S’okay. Say, I cooked something special for dinner tonight. Third recipe for the day.”

The poet snorted. "Uh-huh."

Wait, something wasn’t right. How could they go on flirting in front of me?! I cleared my throat and seduced them with my charming smile.

“Oh.” My poet fell victim to my charms and wrapped his fingers around the driver’s arms. “That’s my officemate.” He told him my name with such subtlety that my heart felt like spiraling into a bowl of sugar. The driver noticed my charms as well, and leaned closer to whisper something in his ear before looking at me. “Nice meeting you.”

Nice meeting you too, hunk.

“Come on, let’s go home. I’m starving.” The shorter boy urged the taller man. What a whiny dipshit, making stupid excuses for a good fuck.

“Fine, fine…anything for you.” The driver replied, grinning seamlessly. The poet glared at him sweetly. What an asshole, saying cheesy movie lines to grab a feel for my man. They left, completely ignoring me. The wonderful, beautiful ME in my high red stilettos and CUP SIZE C!

Information on the driver, based on observations and snooping. Written on my journal.

1. He’s rich.
2. He WAS rich. Had some problems with the family.
3. He’s insane for leaving his wealthy lifestyle for a poor poet.
4. He’s a clever thinker and a smooth talker.
5. The poet is his world. Sad, isn’t it?
6. He seems to dislike cats.
7. Even if he’s the one who shoots off the best one-liners, one word from the poet and he follows obediently. They really complement each other.
8.He likes sex. (Who doesn’t?)

An idea came into my mind. Their relationship wasn’t right. They did not belong to each other. They were both MEN. Men weren’t born in this world to suck on other men’s necks. They were born to help in the process of procreation. I was more than willing to offer myself for the designated purpose of man.

One of them had to leave the other and fall into my arms.

I had no idea who, though. Well, there’s always time to choose.

***

I frequently wondered why my prospects liked each other. I mean, what could my soon-to-be-husband, ultimately gorgeous poet see in a highly attractive, deliciously sexy driver of a black, musty car? I listed a few possible reasons for their strange sort of attraction for each other.

1. A cruel, spiteful society
2. Traumatizing experiences during childhood
3. Lack of proper education
4. Mental anguish
5. Lack of exposure to the opposite sex
6. Odd sexual cravings.

One was acceptable. The subject speaks for itself. Society is evil and people are so rotten that they decided to depend on each other since nobody cared about them. The majority pretend to be unaffected by couples like them but they secretly harbor disgust for such affairs. There was only one catch: the two guys never seemed to care. They probably accepted the fact that they were taboo, and got used to negative energy along the way. Cross that one out.

Two is confirmed true. I did a little more research by eavesdropping on the poet’s other conversations and checking out his cellular phone; I found out that he had family issues. Apparently his parents were flighty people. I overheard the driver curse his father’s name and I assumed that he thought him a dickhead. Maybe they stuck together because they knew the other went through the same bad experiences. But if that was the only reason, then why were they still together for several BLASTING years? (I found that one out when I inquired about their status to their neighbors, who knew them very well.) Their so-called love (allow me to puke) should’ve died if that was the only reason. Another cross-out.

Number three is unfeasible. I snuck a peek at my beloved poet’s resume from the boss’ office when I was pretending to be looking for a stapler. He was in the top honor’s list, and won a lot of awards in poster-making contests and all those interschool competitions. The driver talked with highfaluting words and phrases that can only be spoken by a nobleman. Cross this number out, but add points to both their appeal.

Four may be deemed possible, based on their family backgrounds, but after a few weeks of surveillance and several E.Q. tests taken online, they were both sane. Sure, the poet may be depressed for a little while, but that was because he was a poet, and poets are brooding types of people. It’s an angst-inspirational thing, I guess. Besides, the driver was always there to make him smile. Ugh, that just sucked tremendously.

I thought five was the answer to the tough question I was facing, but I realized that I was wrong. I wasn’t the only one who desired the both of them; there were many stupid fanatics who ogled over them during coffee breaks and pursued them when they took brief walks at the park, hand in hand. Many girls tried to talk to them and even if they were quiet sorts the driver remained polite and entertained them a bit. It’s most likely that they have been followed by such damn bitches ever since they were young; bitches in all shapes and sizes. So both men had enough exposure, but they chose to ignore the screaming girls that surround them each day. I mean, following them around like a band of horny sluts? How obsessed. They give us women a bad name, those shallow stalkers.

Some people have their kinks. Six is one of them. Men are known for their weird if somewhat crazy sexual preferences. That’s why they try all kinds of positions and places and sounds. It just so happens that the both of them had a certain sexual urge for the other man for a very long time. Even though they seemed like the kind of men who have gotten themselves laid already, it wasn’t just sex that bound them together. Just like what the driver told the poet when they were walking near the telephone booth I was hiding in: Sex is just an added bonus, an extra ooze.

He’s right in a way. He also said that sex is a process that is done to please the one you love, to tell him—I mean her that you enjoy every aspect of him—I mean her—(oh to hell with it, he’s QUEER), and that you yearn to be closer. So even if the poet punched his driver when he mentioned their sex lives (thus giving me additional information about their relationship), he was still slightly blushing. Blushes are always good things. Blushes mean that the person is embarrassed, but actually likes it.

(Note to self: Apparently, beating each other senseless is one of their odd sexual cravings. That and snogging beside a phone booth.)

I made a list of possibilities, but they never answered my question: why do they fucking love each other? Why did they stick together for several years, why do they stare into each other’s eyes even if a horde of almost topless models pass by them (hey, it could happen), why do they ignore me, ME, ME?!

I needed to end their relationship. Didn’t they know they were breaking my heart?

***

I am a woman with desires, and when things don’t go my way I get pretty smart. I wasn’t batch salutatorian for nothing, after all. Steps in ruining relationships suddenly became an expertise of mine.

So I began first thing in the morning. When the driver called during work, I always answered the phone to tell him that the poet already left. I hacked the poet’s files and deleted all his e-mails. I tinkered with his computer late at night and disabled messaging permanently so the driver could not contact him. When the driver waited outside with his van, I told him that the poet was in this certain place, and the sucker would drive there straight away. After a few minutes the other arrived in the place where they were supposed to meet, looking disappointed.

My plan worked. They fought and bickered because of miscommunication. But it was just like their usual fights; insulting words and punches that always end up with forgiveness and slight hand squeezes. I had to make them fight for real, a struggle that would end their relationship.

“You didn’t call me.”

“I did, I swear. Somebody answered and said that you were out someplace.”

“You know that I’m working on something important! Where have you been, anyway?!”

The driver looked pensive. “…I bought you a new set of paint; I checked ‘em at home and most of the containers were running out. You said there was this exhibit you were planning to join, so I realized that you probably needed new ones. I know that you can’t afford another set, and that you’d kill me if I offered, but I still left to buy you some anyway. Do you still want to hit me?” He patted his cheek.

The poet’s face relaxed. “…Oh god…y-you shouldn’t…thank you.”

The next day there was a new set of love bites. The poet tried to conceal them with a collared shirt but one of the geeks yanked it and there they were; smirking at me.

Apparently the driver was smarter than me. He’s so fucking good I hate it.

***

Plan two was taken into action. It consisted of humiliating them in public and ruining their dates. When I spotted the two together I would spite them in a loud voice saying things like “You’re both a DISGRACE! You fuck each other senseless like you were high on steroids, and you still have the fucking pride to walk normally AROUND here?!” The poet would tremble, yet the taller boy was always cool. The asshole would reply, “What are you doing here in your cheap lingerie? Out for another mission from the harlot house?” He was so damn good at verbal abuse.

I thought ruining their dates was an easy task, too. I followed them around without even trying to hide myself, screamed “PERVERT!” when they got too close for comfort, and sang songs with saxophone bridges. As usual, the redhead was affected and would blush furiously, but the driver came around and told me off. He frequently dumped ice cream cones on my cleavage, but the worst thing he did to me was kissing the poet passionately and looking really overjoyed about it.

(Come to think of it, what did the poet’s lips taste like? Probably chocolate. The driver’s lips would taste like cigarette smoke and mint gum. Yummy.)

I tried every possible way to make them fall out of love for each other; I even plastered magazine pages of Playboy porn stars on the poet’s entire cubicle, but he merely ripped them off and made another draft. Yet the only positive response I received was from the poet—he couldn’t control his emotions when I annoyed him most of the time.

One time, I almost succeeded. I told the poet that they were only using each other because they had no choice. Everything seemed to be going on smoothly; even managed to make him cry.

However, in the end, love always reigns. They patched up their differences and misunderstandings and celebrated by dumping ice cubes on my panty hose.

Fuck the bastard who invented that phrase.

***

The poet did not come to work that morning, which was a first. I waited, he still did not come. A week passed by, and by the love of my coworker’s ass he still did not come.

I panicked. Was he sick? Did he finally elope with his boyfriend to buy a house in Hawaii? (Oh wait, they already lived together.) Or worse; was it entirely my fault? I yearned for the end of their relationship, but it didn’t mean that I never wanted to see the both of them again. I made a decision: I was going to visit their boarders whether they were fucking or not. I secretly stole their address from my boss’s files and as a thank you gift I added a bit more cream on her coffee. Then off I went.

I knocked on the door impatiently. Several seconds later, after hearing a couple of grunts, the door swung open. I struggled for breath.

The taller man stood, polo shirt unbuttoned, belt unbuckled and face contorted with annoyance. He was holding what seemed like a wet face towel on his right hand. I felt drool accumulate at the corners of my mouth, threatening to fall off. I tightened my lip and tried my best NOT to ogle at his lovely, lovely torso.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He muttered angrily.

GodifIcanjustlaymyhandsonhischestIcandienow

I glared at him, completely offended. “W-What do you suppose—you…YOU’RE MOLESTING HIM, AREN’T YOU?!!!”

The driver glared back at me—oh he was so attractive. “Why the—why do you think I would do…THAT?!”

I suddenly had a thought. They both loved each other, so the probability of him molesting the redhead was zero percent. “So…why are you wearing your shirt like that?!”

“Because this is where I live, dumbass.”

“I have to be sure you’re not doing anything stupid.” I elbowed him out of the way and ran towards the living room. The living room was a little cramped. Their couch was too close to the TV and the walls were covered by bookshelves. It was very neat, though. Who would’ve thought men could be neat? Oh well, they’re exceptions. The driver tried to catch me but accidentally stubbed his foot on the wall and howled loudly. I smirked and ran to the open bedroom, the only friggin’ room in the place.

The poet was on a small bed with a weird thin mattress. At least it had springs. Anyways, he was lying on his back with a blanket draped ‘till his neck. The scene looked suspicious. He was breathing heavily and…and…was it just me or was he naked under the sheets?

“You both FUCK on THIS pile of SHIT??!!” I yelled. “ON—THIS—MUSTY—OVERLY-ANOREXIC—BEDSPACE?!!!”

All of a sudden strong hands gripped my shoulders and slammed my back on the nearest wall, clenching tightly. I almost let out a scream but a palm pressed painfully on my mouth. My heart pounding heavily, I braced myself and looked up.

The driver looked livid. In fact, he was in a worse state; he was ENRAGED. His brows were furrowed deep and he never blinked even after a few seconds. “Don’t you dare—“ He began with gritted teeth, “—go screaming around here like a friggin’ shithead, if you wake him up I SWEAR I’ll kill you…I’ll kill you NOW…”

I nodded quickly, trembling from head to foot. The driver’s frown deepened, and then he clutched my arm and dragged me out of the room. Like, ohmygawd. He was TOUCHING my arm! I practically floated through the corridor and unto the couch. There I sat, still feeling a little woozy. He lit a cigarette and started pacing around.

“Get out.” He ordered. “GET OUT.”

Now that I caught a glimpse of his amazing packs? “No effing way—“

“You’ve seen him, okay?! Isn’t that ENOUGH?! He’s sick. So don’t you dare be your fucking noisy self or else I’m going to hit you REAL hard. He’s been having this raging fever for days now, can’t hardly even sleep properly anymore, and now that I’ve managed to make him feel comfortable you come barging in like a nosy mandrill!” He snarled.

“Why don’t you just take him to the hospital? He looks like he’s dying.” I rolled my eyes.

He stopped abruptly, face paling. Then he looked at me with his cute frown again. “THAT’S IT. GET OUT! NOW~!!!”

“If you don’t have enough money to buy him medicine, I can let you borrow some from me,” I said cheerfully. “Prices are rising nowadays. You should depend on others sometimes, you know? While you have the chance.”

The driver looked ready to commit suicide, but chose to sigh infuriately instead. “Okay, I’ll accept it. What do you want?!”

I looked at him straight in the eyes. “Kiss me.”

He looked back, unashamed. “Fine.”

This was it. I would charm him with my seductive, delicious tongue, and we would French kiss the night away while my soon-to-be-husband moaned helplessly in his room. Oh, things were starting to be terrific. I tucked my hair behind my ears and grinned, stretching my arms. “I’m ready.”

The guy was resolute. He walked up to me, never hesitating, never embarrassed. His eyes looked straight into mine, eyes that told me they loathed every part of me. His touch was bitter when he grasped my shoulders. There were no wedding bells ringing on my ears. There were no fluttering hearts and doves.

There was nothing.

I felt nothing but his cold hands, and they were so cold that I found myself shuddering madly. This guy…he was more than ready to do anything for the sick guy sleeping on his bed. I wanted this for so long, his fucking cold touch, but now I felt…

“Why is she here?” a soft voice asked.

His touch became warm in an instant. The driver let go of me quickly and walked across the room to touch the sick man’s forehead. “S’nothing. Are you okay?”

The pale-faced boy nodded, eyes half-shut. Apparently he wasn’t nude; he wore shorts. I felt blessed to be standing among two almost-naked men, until the redhead spoke. “…M’ feelin’ much better now. Your massages really helped, you persistent little freak.” A slight smile appeared on his face, and the driver looked relieved.

Something sickening overcame my senses. It was like being spat on by a stranger; drooled on by a dog. I could never have what they had. I could never have what I wanted. I was a woman with desires. But I wasn’t stupid. I know I’m not desired in return.

I left the unit just after the tall boy pampered his lover with caresses and returned him to the bed for more rest and relaxation. When I looked back and saw the pining, glazed looks they gave each other like they were trying to melt the receiver, I finally came to a conclusion.

Men are the most disgusting creatures in the universe.

***

The inseparable couple finally had a real fight, but I wasn’t the one behind it. They inflicted the pain upon themselves. I didn’t know the reason, but I had a few assumptions. It appears that the driver did something unforgivable to the poet, something so nasty that making up was out of the question.

It was about time that I’d laugh, point at them and laugh, laugh, laugh just laugh because I knew it all along

The giggles that erupted were from the throat.

I took pictures of the poet with the driver by my side, and he looked at the redhead with such sick longing that I felt—you’ll never guess it right—pity. I hated it. I hated how the taller man looked like; a face torn with regret and self-hatred while he cursed himself, hurt himself. I hated the way the redhead stared at his computer screen, just there, staring and breaking down into hiccups and tiny tears.

“Why don’t you just say you’re sorry, whatever it is you did anyway, you sick ass.”

The moment those words fell out of my mouth I felt much better. The next few weeks they were together again, so infatuated with each other that they risked all dignity and embraced outside the building of our office, to the disdain or amusement of everyone on the street. Then everything was back to normal because the poet realized what was happening and promptly whopped his lover in the face. And they laughed. It was common fact that it was love, all those quarrels and everything. If love was hurting each other, then to hell with it. Such masochists.

If I’m going to marry one of them in the future, I have to plan while they’re still couple. I have to try my best. I have to try. I don’t want to end up with one of them just because they broke up and had no other option. I want to BE the reason why they break up.

I want to take the other half away, make them fall out of love for each other; because that’s the only time I could laugh hard and loud.

***

Everything became worse for me, better for them.

I caught them engaging in ‘more-than-just-touches-of-affection’ activities in one of the building’s empty departments (read: ours). The poet had a graveyard shift, so naturally I defied my own sleeping habits and stayed there with him. Before I knew it, they were kissing and groping and moaning…at the redhead’s newly playboy-plastered cubicle.

Beside them, the computer monitor showed a recently opened e-mail that came from the driver himself. Contained teases and sap, probably what triggered the reactions in the first place. I noticed a bruise on the taller man’s cheek, fresh from a direct jab. How they ended up chewing each other’s mouths, I never knew.

Instead, I channeled my inner feminist.

“You’re slobbering all over the desk.” I reported helpfully.

The redhead flushed and tried to struggle, but the other calmed him down and remained as cool as ever. Fucktard.

“And you’re drooling all over your bust.” The taller man pressed his nose on the other’s neck, but he never stopped looking at me. “Do you like…” his eyes seemed full of lust. “…what…” the other boy whimpered. “…you see?”

Incensed and wishing that the world would just fuck itself and implode, I stormed out of the room. The tears came a few seconds later, after I drowned out their moans of pleasure in my ears by kicking on torn playboy pages on the floor. I was a woman with desires that remained desires for the duration of my blasted love life.

***

I had a migraine attack that morning, so I urged to friend to accompany me with my shopping. When I had headaches, resting wasn’t the solution: I would feel better with more clothes, shoes and nice sights.

Speaking of nice sights, I spotted my two prospects. Their arms and femurs were glued together again, and they carried a bag full of cat food. Weirdos. I cleared my throat and began loudly, “MY OH MY, WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE…two queer fuckers carrying even MORE paraphernalia for their lovely nights…HOW SICK CAN YOU GET—“

I felt something hard and hit my cheek, and I spurted out a few drops of my drink on a waiter. The people surrounding us gasped.

I received a slap.

From my very own friend.

She slammed her hands on the table. “You know what? I’m SICK of your ranting. I asked you to accompany me so you’d forget being your fucking, obsessive self, but obviously fixing all your attention towards guys is the only thing you find enjoyable in your life! You’re SAD, you know that?! You give us women a bad name, you…you shallow STALKER!”

I raised my hand to slap her back, but my body convulsed on its own. I touched my swollen cheek, looked back at the two lovers, and threw up what I just ate all over my subway. My so-called friend walked away as I stared at my ruined lunch. Bitch.

Naked love is so nauseating. One day they’ll leave each other when I win this battle. And when they’re both groveling in their knees, I would ask them to kiss me. It would be completely fine even if I feel icy hands or receive dry kisses.

Just as long as one of them would be mine.

Which one?

I bit my lip.

(Come to think of it, having both of them is a better deal. Cross that one out.)

***