Track No. 14 Like A Prayer （LIVE）
MILEY CYRUS
“S’cuse me, bro.”
Andrew slides right past him, one hand pressed against his chest, eyes on the exit as the bathroom door swings shut behind him.
There’s a second where the hallway holds its breath.
With Andrew’s back turned to him, it could get ugly.
He usually doesn’t make it five feet out before it does.
Guy finds out his girl’s spreadin’ her legs for Andrew Harding, then decides the best course of action to get his pride back is by puttin’ Andrew through a wall.
Yeah, that makes a shit ton of sense. Girl steps out, and the first instinct is to go hunt down the other guy and go mental—the one who’s not in the relationship.
But he also knows that ain’t how hurt works.
Hurt needs somewhere to go.
Peter clocks him from the bar.
Andrew tips his chin, signalin’ he’ll be out front.
Then it’s tunnel vision, head down, sneakers hittin’ sticky floors, not lookin’ at a soul. If that guy wants to follow him out? Good. He’ll take the fuckin’ punch. Hell, he might lean into it. Thank him after, too. Might be the most honest thing Andrew’s felt in years.
He shoulders the door open, and the weather hits back. September's that weird month where you’re freezing your ass off in a t-shirt the second the wind hits you, but you’re still sweatin’ through your jacket ‘cause the street is packed shoulder-to-shoulder.
“Some Bar Off Ludlow, man,” some drunk kid slurs into his phone over all the cabs honkin’ over nothin’. “Nah, if you’d shut the fuck up for two seconds and listen to me. The name of the bar, it’s literally called Some Bar Off Ludlow.”
Seconds later, the bar door swings open, and Peter barrels out with two girls trailin’ behind, gigglin’ drunk, heels slappin’.
Andrew gives the girls a once-over. “Two, huh?” He huffs out a laugh. “Just keep ‘em away from me. I ain’t responsible for nobody tonight. Not even my damn self.”
“Girls? What? What’re you talkin’ about—” His eyes are bloodshot, and he turns, squintin’ back at the girls, then jabs a thumb at them.
“Yeah, nah, that’s just how it is.” He shrugs.
“Can’t do nothin’ about it. It’s the Southie thing.
My walk alone puts ‘em in heat.” He points at himself.
“One minute I’m mindin’ my business, next thing I know they’re followin’ behind me like I got treats in my pocket.
” He gestures back. “Ain’t their fault. They don’t know any better. ”
A clipped laugh cuts from Andrew’s throat. “Bro, shut the fuck up. You don’t gotta narrate your own game.”
Five minutes later, Andrew Harding’s trapped, brick at his back with Peter’s brunette talkin’ in circles in his face.
“Y’know what I think? I think what you do is respectful.
” Lipstick smears her front teeth, booze ridin’ on her breath when she says, “Like, respectful nasty, y’know?
You care. That’s rare. Prime example—I asked you for the Harding Special, you said no ‘cause you don’t go down on drunk girls.
You actually give a shit. I bet you even ask girls for their name first.”
He scratches at the back of his neck, noddin’. “Nah, I don’t.”
She jabs her cigarette at him, eyes wide.
“See. Exactly. Because names don’t even matter, it’s the soul inside.
But like, have you ever been a woman? We got this need, y’know?
It’s like, have you ever wanted every inch of you, like…
worshipped? And not just suckin’ on your tits or whatever, I mean, like, your fuckin’ soul, dude. I dunno. Y’know what I mean?”
He drags his tongue along the inside of his cheek, eyes dippin’ to the sidewalk. “Nope. Never been a woman. Heard it’s real hard.”
“But what if you come across a real ugly vagina?”
He rolls his eyes. Swear t’God, girls judge pussy worse than guys do. Andrew never understood that shit.
A guy sees one—any one—and they go fuckin’ stupid.
Girl sees one, she starts comparin’.
But then again, girls were taught to hate their bodies.
“Nah. Pussies are like newborns. Every last one’s a beautiful fuckin’ miracle.” He glances back at her. “But lemme ask you a real one,” he says, liftin’ his chin, only ‘cause she’s drunk and can’t clock shit. “You ever give so much of yourself that even your skin can’t feel shit anymore?”
She grabs his bicep and strokes it.
“Yeah, I totally get that. That’s like… me when I get waxed.”
A half-laugh leaves him, and he leans his shoulder into the brick again to pull out of her grip. “Yeah. That’s where I’m at. I’m skin without nerve.” He lifts a shoulder, lookin’ down the street. “All the worshippin’ is pointless when you can’t feel shit.”
“Dude…” she draws out. “I cried once. During oral. Because it was so bad. I said ‘softer’ and he said ‘what do you mean.’” She leans in, arms up. “‘What do you mean?’ Softer? Like, how do you not get it?”
He eyes Peter, who has his back turned to him, while Andrew’s out here stuck hostin’ Drunk Girl Hour: Oral Edition. ‘Cause that’s all anyone thinks he cares to talk about, right?
“Yeah, well, you say softer, you gotta give ‘im somethin’ to work with. Could be pressure. Could be rhythm. Could be hands if he’s usin’ ‘em. Fingers. The way he’s holdin’ you down. Don’t fuckin’ know,” he mutters, the night closin’ in on him. “Sounds like the guy just wanted to do it right.”
Guy’s not even here and Andrew’s takin’ the hit. Maybe next time, she don’t make him feel small for askin’ how to do it right.
“Most guys? Don’t even like eatin’ pussy,” she keeps goin’.
“They pretend. You can tell. They don’t see it as part of the sex.
Like what about me? Y’know? Not only do I gotta ask him to eat me out…
but I gotta teach him, too? What’s up with that?
” Her hands raise at her sides. “Nah, for real. Like, the fuck?”
He raises his hand to shut it down—mouth open, ready to dip—
“Are you Andrew Harding?” Some girl pops up next to him.
He freezes, hand still raised, head turning slow until his gaze slams into a dark blonde, lip injections, and earrings hangin’ so heavy, the holes are painfully stretched. A second girl stands behind her—tiny-ass brunette, hair pulled back high in a ponytail.
He don’t get a word in. Drunk Girl’s already takin’ the mic.
“Yeah, this is Andrew Harding.”
She turns to Andrew, whisperin’ in his ear as if they’re teammates. “Wow. Okay. She’s pretty. That’s fun for you.”
She wiggles her brows and turns back to the girl.
“You lookin’ for oral tonight? ‘Cause, can confirm he’ll respect your boundaries.” Her hand comes up, eyes narrowed. “But first I have to ask, how many drinks have you had, sweetheart?”
“Yo.” He turns fully now, hand droppin’. “The fuck you doin’?”
Caramel-blonde bounces forward on her heels. “Uh—two.”
“Pfft. Then you’re golden,” Drunk Girl says, brushin’ it away with a smile.
“That would pass a DWI check in Staten.” She points down the block, other hand landin’ on his arm.
Andrew stares at her, deadpan. “Alley’s wide open, sweetheart.
I can keep your friend company. Hold your purse if you want.
Unless,” her finger bounces between the two girls, “you both lookin’ to come tonight? ”
It goes quiet between the three, the bass from the nightclub on the corner vibratin’ under their feet. Andrew’s eyes cut to the caramel blonde, peelin’ the Drunk Girl’s hand off his arm.
“Sorry about her. She’s drunk. I’m not—” Andrew cuts himself off. The real story is he doesn’t give a damn tonight.
This is the whole reason he took the turnpike into the city in the first place, to drown in the reputation he can’t shake anyway.
For ten straight years, he’s been feeding girls the exact fantasy they were looking for.
Even if he’s totally burnt out on it, this is the busted-ass box he first trapped himself in, then convinced himself was the only one he belonged in.
This is what they expect, the only thing he had going for him, and what he’ll always do. Elle reminded him of that.
His eyes drift between the two girls, his throat dry. “I’m two seconds from leavin’, so I’ll ask once. You flirtin’ for the fuck of it?”
The two girls look at each other, then back at Andrew.
Six minutes later, the blonde’s smokin’ a cigarette behind a dumpster, waitin’ while he’s got his mouth on the little brunette, her leg thrown over his shoulder. Her pussy’s what he calls a Mouth Breather—droolin’, makin’ wet noises, lips already layin’ open without havin’ to hold them back.
Mouth Breathers are hungry to do half the work, that’s the beauty of them. They know exactly what they want, and they take it.
With this kind, he’s just gotta keep his mouth open, loose, tongue flat and grindin’ into the way she rocks, lettin’ her ride his face.
She came screamin’ through the first one, so loud he had to stuff her panties in her mouth to shut her up. Now her grip’s locked in his hair, thighs shakin’ like she’s seconds from blackin’ out.
“Mmmgod…” she chokes out. “Fuhh—feels s’fuhh…”
At the mouth of the alley, drunk girls pass by, laughin’, rappin’, the hook to a Salt-N-Pepa song echoing off the brick. The blonde friend standin’ against the opposite wall behind him raps along “…None yo business.”
Then Mouth Breather humps his face to the rhythm of it. She ain’t even with him anymore. She’s locked on the song, grindin’ to their beat, settin’ her own pace like he’s a fuckin’ toy.
Down at the end of the alley, the girl’s still rappin’, her flow on point, when suddenly, she drops into a mashup. The lyrics slide into Aerosmith, “Cryin’” punchin’ outta her lungs, kickin’ Salt-N-Pepa to the curb, as if the beat belonged to Steven Tyler all along.
The transition’s masterclass, brilliant, and it rips into him, turns his head and pulls his eyes right to her.
“Yo—what the fuck?” he breathes, seein’ the two girls thirty to forty feet away, and the one who has the guts to mash hip-hop and classic rock.
The execution’s tight, too word-perfect for a girl alcohol-deep.
He knows then, she ain’t drunk. She’s locked in.