I’m right there, ready to throw myself off the highest cliff when Tarzan begins to smoke and burn against my skin. “AHH. FUCK,” I squeal, tearing Tarzan away from my clit and throwing him across the room. He crashes against the wall and my orgasm dwindles down to shameful ache, leaving my body even more wound up than it was before.
Tarzan bursts into flames on my bedroom floor and I panic, throwing myself out of bed and racing toward him with the bottle of water from my bedside table.
I dump the water over him and stare at his charred remains, feeling my whole world crumbling around me. Is it so much to ask just to get off without threatening to burn my clit right off my body? For fuck’s sake. How do I have such bad luck?
I sink to my knees, wanting nothing more than to cry as I stare down at what used to be my best friend. “Nooooooo,” I sigh as he smokes, telling me that my love affair with Tarzan has finally come to its devastating end and I’m left with nothing but the broken and over-used toys that remain in my bedside drawer. I guess I’ll be stopping at the store to figure out which batteries they need, though can I really afford a small fortune on batteries when I have overdue rent that needs to be paid?
Fuck. I’m screwed and not in a good way.
The soft sound of the TV plays as I scoop Tarzan’s remains off the floor. I suppose the landlord will just add the destroyed carpet and the burn marks trailing up the wall to my growing amount of debt for this shithole.
Certain that Tarzan isn’t about to spontaneously combust again, I dump him into my trashcan and crash down onto my bed, keeping my head slumped in my hands.
Welcome to my fucking life. It’s a shit storm. Something is always going wrong.
There was a time that I was doing really well. It’s not like I was ahead in my rent or anything like that, but I had enough saved up so that I could afford to take a break for a week or two. Working nights at the club downtown isn’t exactly what I want to be doing with my life, but the tips are good—just not good enough. I had to slave every single night, working double shifts just to get that extra bit of cash. I had just enough to give myself a well-needed break when my scumbag father finally tracked me down and came bursting through my door with the determination to take everything he thought he was owed.
I thought I was safe here. I left his sorry, drunk ass in the dust four years ago and never looked back. He took everything I had saved, my rent, my food, even my fucking TV. I was lucky that Mrs. Brown down the hallway offered me her old one in exchange for a little help doing things around her home that aren’t so simple for her anymore.
My father left me with nothing, tired and exhausted, with no way to fight him off. I give it only a few more months before that asshole finds himself in trouble again and he’ll come storming back into my life. Maybe the eviction notice is a blessing in disguise. Maybe the opportunity to start over is exactly what I need to never see him again. But he’ll just track me down like he always does.
I’ve been trying to get back on my feet ever since, but there’s only so many double shifts I can take before the exhaustion claims me. Besides, I’ve learned the hard way that the tips don’t come rolling in when you’re practically asleep with your head squished against the bar.
My rent has been late every month since my father’s visit, and even though I’ve explained my situation to my landlord, I don’t fault him for wanting to get me out of here. Hell, if the situation were reversed, I’d probably be doing the same thing.
I love my home, though it’s nothing special. The cabinet doors are falling off and there are more than enough marks on the walls from the previous tenants, but it’s mine. I worked for this, and in a hard time where I didn’t know what was going to happen, this was my salvation. And now, I have thirty days before it’s all taken away from me.
My landlord is an ass. Shit, maybe that’s not fair. He’s only an ass when his eyes inevitably start to wander. Majority of the time, his inspections aren’t so bad. The leering only comes at the end when his job is done. There have been a few marriage proposals over the years and a few drunken visits asking if I’m down to fuck, but he’s always respected my space when I’ve asked him to leave. I know that’s really not ideal qualities for a landlord, but it could be worse. Despite the eviction notice, I consider myself lucky.