*Warning: This story contains adult sexual situations and bad language. Read at your own risk.
I cupped his shaggy face and scrunched my brow. “You don’t look like him at all,” I said.
I was submissive and moist underneath his body, and he was too heady to care for my usual musings about the man I truly loved.
He knew it wasn’t him, nor did he care. He saw that I did care but tried to hide it. I tried to erase everything with bodies in motion, slapping together to stomp out the truth.
He didn’t really know me, and I could barely recall him. We had mutual ties in the distant past, meeting and occupying the same spaces of no real relevance.
The only thing that mattered now was our union on his black bed.
Black was a value that could either hide or accent anything.
I laid on the rickety futon covered in cigarette burns, yearning to be vacuumed. As lukewarm sweat clung to my skin, I felt pieces of dirt and debris sticking to me. His stash was lying visibly on the floor next to stacks of CDs and piles of clothes.
I would have been more disgusted if I wasn’t so lonely.
The first time I said my beloved’s name as the other one pounded into me, he didn’t react at all. I was more surprised that I even said it, rather than feel guilty of his hurt feelings.
I was trying to forget, and even if his ramming became painful, I couldn’t subdue anything.
The one I truly wanted had always tried to be rough, but was always gentle despite his efforts.
He flipped me onto my stomach so he could come from behind. I knew that he was feeling insulted at this point despite his efforts, and he’d probably rather not look at my face while I envisioned another man.
“Tie me up,” I ordered, and he looked into my steadfast face with his own mischief and wonder. I raised my arms above my head and flushed my wrists together awaiting his trial. He grabbed the hair piece out of my own hair and tied me to the right post.
He pushed me down with his weight, tearing at me in a suffocating kiss and burning me with a consistency of internal strokes.
I struggled, thrashing wildly. Only I wasn’t scared, but smiling and uttering sounds of wanton joy.
I didn’t want reminders of gentleness. I just wanted everything scorching and raw.
“I’m in a bad mood,” he said, during one of our pointless car trips. “Maybe you shouldn’t come with me today.”
He was sober, pining for his usual fixes when he had no stash. Cigarettes just didn’t satisfy him completely anymore.
“It’s all right,” I said, looking away from his face and out the window to the dizzying passing scenery. It didn’t matter if I went with him anywhere at all, as long as I didn’t have to look at him much or remember his conversations.
I looked over at him for a minute, my eyes traveling down to his crotch.
“Hey …” he tried to protest, but the zipper was already unfastened.
With his eyes widened, I licked my lips at the sight of something superficially precious. And like any treasure, it could be passed on person to person.
I wondered how many people had passed on what he possessed.
I nurtured and polished, earning from his sour temperament a neutral sigh. It was beyond dusk so I had no light to read his face.
“That was pretty good,” he said, his words an acceptable enough reward.
I didn’t really want to look at his real expression.
One of the last times I was with him, I felt less and less like myself. Babies and possible diseases by him were heavily moot.
I hated that I didn’t really even know him, and that the other person who really mattered didn’t even know of him.
And that person wanted me back, and the idea of being in this stranger’s bed made me cry.
But I felt too sick to cry, my stomach churning and the nerves tightening in my shoulders.
My eyes were too dry from his smoking, either swollen or blurry. I could be closer to death and not even know it.
Wrought with worry, the demons only seem to encircle me during intermission. But in our play, they would scrutinize from sidelines.
He laid a sweaty, hairy arm over my blue-veined breast. Sucking in the stale air of his still-soiled room, I looked away to the cracking brown ceiling.
I suddenly wished he would be the one to leave and disappear from my mind.
“None of this matters,” I whispered after the sixth or seventh time that day. “I feel like a faceless doll you’re not going to remember in five years. All you’ll remember is that you could stick yourself into something warm.”
It was obvious that he considered my philosophies tiresome and flat.
“Are you even going to remember me?” he scoffed, still panting from exertion. His heavy breathing reminded me of the recent raw convergence.
I looked at him feeling my blood grow dark, “I hope not.”
Later, I would leave him, fake that I even felt remorse for hurting him. I was trying to convince myself I meant nothing to him, just a random fuck.
“It meant nothing,” I said from that point on, holding back choking sobs and quavering lips.
“Fuck you,” he told me when I chanted that to him after meeting up again on some impersonal blog. “So I was just some pretentious artistic nobody you could fuck until he took you back?”
My way of responding to that was to delete him forever. I would only have to deal with the residue.
“It’s better to forget it all.”
In my beloved’s arms, he never once reminded me of my stains. Although, he did mention it other times not so intimate, and car rides even became hard for breathing.
I would be judged by him, and often times his recognition would spiral me back to that memory to not forget.
“It really was a horrible mistake. Let’s not talk about it, okay?” I would say to anyone who remembered my past faults with that stranger, not really wanting to remember myself.
I wanted to eradicate that man’s hands and face from everything that defined me, but I could never regain those days of my life.
“Everyone is ashamed of something in life,” I said, feeling a bit more human.
But even so, words could never take actions away.
© 2005 – 2015 H.K. Rowe