How Cyborgs Have Sex

Intro

Title: HCHS

There was rain dropping outside the window. In front of Phil as the windshield wipers paced back and forth in a steady drawl. Like a country singer on stage, hollering about how his wife left him for the dog, so he's spitting in a can and strumming on a banjo. In a rocking chair in the deep south. A place where no one has teeth.

Except Phil lived in a city. And he was parked in a complex, somewhere outside of the slums--but close enough for him to know that the slums were right there, right in front of him. And this place was cold, even with the heat.

There were two floors of an apartment in front of him: since the lights weren't on, only the bottom, illuminated windows, looked like eyes. The second floor was a flat mouth.

Therefore, the face was upside down. A monotone stare. Looking at Phil, watching without much of a voice. When the owner of the apartment on the first floor walked behind the blinds, their body made a shadow, as if the demon just opened it's eyes.

That's when Phil noticed the stairs that led up to the flat mouth. Like a tongue. The demon was blowing raspberries at him.

I know you can't have sex.

The line buzzed between Phil's ears. In a big car that sat in a mundane apartment complex. There was music at a low volume. Gears on the dashboard that could be turned and pressed were highlighted in vibrant hues. Phil didn't look down because he wanted to keep the demon outside.

The demon blowing raspberries at him. 

Phil didn't notice it before. The faces. Before he made his way up to the second floor of the complex. To a woman's apartment. Not someone particularly special. But someone that liked Phil enough to invite him over. Who made plans, prepared dinner, and tried to keep his attention. 

Someone beautiful. Blonde, springy hair. Thin with pearl white skin and skimpy jeans that let her butt cheeks hang out. Someone that most would have mounted the moment they were alone and in a safe environment to do so--this woman did tell Phil that even in unsafe environments, many lost their inhibitions. Women included.

But not Phil. Not the night before this damp morning, with the rain bearing down and a demon blowing raspberries at him.

She knew what you did. 

Phil thought to himself. He was sure to himself. The windowed eyes on the first floor, there wasn't anyone walking around behind them; none of the owners, no shapes. The demon must have closed its eyes. That meant Phil was solely conversing with himself. Inside his head. 

About the roommate that just so happened to be at the second floor apartment the night before. A lanky woman that ate a lot and was always in perfect shape. Who made the rounds at the fridge. Always walking into the room, waving hello, saying four or five words, before disappearing back in her room. 

Honestly, Phil liked her. 

What he didn't like was that the fridge was relatively off limits. 

Sort of. At least for the first instance that he tried to sleep with the woman on the second floor of the apartment complex. 

Because the first time Phil walked up the demon face in front of him, he didn't bring a lunchbox--and what Phil put inside his lunchbox was not something that he could leave unattended in a fridge: not without it being concealed.  Especially for two women that seemed to eat a lot and never put on any weight. 

What would they honestly think of hypodermic needles?

Of course even without the fridge there were the pills in Phil's pocket. Round, purple, fat, euphoric. They made him horny almost as much as they made the world spin. 

Which is where he was at, as rain fell from a heavy, grey sky. The radio crackled at a low volume. Colorful gears made a demon face in the car. Phil's intuition escalated the thought process. Even when he sat still, he was paralyzed. Not fully immobile, but the world was slow, him alongside it. Thinking back. Rehearsing. Watching the events of the night before play behind his eyes but in front of everything else. 

The pills in his pocket. They gave him a headache. 

From the middle console Phil grabbed a medicine bottle. He popped out two aspirin. He swallowed both with warm water. The wait took ten minutes or so: then he forgot. As if the headache was never part of him. 

The demon face didn't seem so sinister without the headache. Despite the failure to perform with a woman that was, to Phil, a supermodel, what was left was hope. 

Almost all Phil had left. 

With the amount of pills he swallowed the night before, which was a few hundred dollars worth of Viagra, Cialis and Levitra. Hope was all Phil had.

That and a desire to pee. He opened the door to a snap of wind that popped him in the mouth. Immediately chilled, Phil began to shake, as he turned his back to the complex, stood close to his car, and unzipped his pants. He pulled out his penis and began to urinate. For a moment, Phil could almost see steam from his pants, from the puddle that accumulated on the gravel. It was so warm, and the air--it was a lot colder than Phil that it would be. It was almost burning the night before.     

Phil stepped back into the car. The woman--he remembered her name was Katelyn; he met her at a bar--she was probably still asleep. 

"You have to earn breakfast," she had said. 

That's not what Phil did. A few hundred dollars worth of pills the night before. A roommate that was always in fridge. Only Phil told himself--"Fuck it!"--and brought the lunchbox with him. Katelyn was happy to see him. She hugged him. 

Phil brought in a backpack. He said he had work to do. When Katelyn left the room to use the bathroom, Phil put the lunchbox into the fridge. To keep things cold. 

In his mind, even as Phil sat in the car and rehearsed, it seemed like it would have been easy to take the lunchbox from the fridge and into the bathroom. Pullout the medicine. Inject the syringe. Press the plunger. He could do it without Katelyn knowing. 

He could have sex. It would be fun. 

Phil didn't prepare for how many people would be over. Or that the roommate had dibs on the fridge, and when she asked why there was a lunchbox, all Phil could do was say it was his lunch for tomorrow. The others in the room piled liquor and everything else in front of it. They played music: heavy beats with spinning lights. They danced and there was always someone at the fridge.

Like they were watching. 

The demon's face looked different. This time there were lights on in the windows of the upstairs apartment complex. Down below, the lights were still on. Four eyes and no glasses. That pissed Phil off. 

Couldn't have sex without the medicine he kept cool in the fridge; he pounded down Viagra, Cialis and Levitra in the bathroom, and the only result he got was a loose bladder. 

Again, Phil stepped out of the car and urinated onto the parking lot.

"I really have to get out of here," as he stepped back inside the Denali and pulled away.

Driving at a morose pace, since his movements were dulled by the amount of sexual drugs flooding his veins, a feeling of inadequacy, a slight euphoria that didn't mix so well with alcohol. None of his thoughts were very still. They were sporadic and consistent like his need to urinate.

Phil pulled over four or five times to pee in some bathroom at a gas station. At a McDonald's. A park, which was right in front of his house but since it was still raining heavily, no one was out so no one would care.   

It wasn't until Phil finished urinating in the park that he realized his medicine was still in Katelyn's fridge.