Maybe it’s ironic the last time I saw you two nights before you were drunk. That after downing shots and guzzling liquor, you thought of me and wanted me then. All I got out of it were your drunken texts and calls. You got pieces of me. You got satisfaction. You got your dick sucked for over an hour.
I got bruises. Four of them that formed a ring: two on my collarbones, two on my shoulders. That was the testimony to my night. But the only one I could explain was the bite mark on my shoulder that had bloomed into a flower like contusion. You got to use me, bend my body to your will. I was glad to do it.
Maybe it’s ironic that two nights before, you fell asleep. You didn’t mean to, you were supposed to drive me home. I remember looking at the clock on your TV, it was 6:38. It had been four hours of you, you, you. You taking whatever you wanted violently… bed shaking, legs quaking, chest heaving. Me bending backwards, forwards, over the bed for you. Your hands guiding me.
Until finally I said enough. You were supposed to take me home; it’d never been this late before. Close, but never this late. You fell asleep with your back turned towards me. I regretted de-spooning myself from you… regretted getting up and pulling your arms from around me. Regretted moving my arm out from under your head. But you didn’t try again. You fell asleep with your back turned towards me.
I tried to take up as little room as possible. I was cold, but the blanket was under you. Curled up, I became so small. I used myself for warmth when really it was your warmth I wanted. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember is waking up. You asked me if I was ready to go. It was 8:20.
I looked like pure shit. My hair was a mess of tangles… we had tried to smooth it out the night before with your gay roommate’s brush but that did no good. My make up was all gone because you had fucked it all off the night before. Mere hours ago, really.
We rode in silence. “I don’t want to go to work,” you said. It started in 20 minutes and I didn’t feel sorry. “Do you have class today?”
“Just one,” I answered. It started in less then an hour. “But I feel like I won’t go.”
All this polite conversation – useless.
When you pulled up and stopped your car, I turned to you not knowing what to expect. I did this every time. But this time you kissed me. Four times. On my cheek, down the side of my face. God, that smile. I could forget myself completely with that smile. I could let it screw me over, not just screw me.
