Authors: Elizabeth Finn
As he watches me undress, he showers me with romantic epithets, all the things naïve girls think they want to hear, that is, until they become jaded whores and realize life sucks when your sole business is to fuck. But for all his kind words that are meant to sound endearing, he disturbs me. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know that I’m sweet, so why should he call me “sweetie”? He’s never touched my body, so how does he know he’s going to make me “feel so good”? He has no right to be romantic with me because he hasn’t earned my adoration. He has no business telling me how good he’s going to treat me when he hasn’t earned my respect. I hate him for his words, and wish I could tape his damn mouth shut and make him shut up, and when that mouth kisses mine, I struggle not to cry. When his tongue enters my mouth, I struggle not to bite it off. Every touch, every kiss is a painful struggle.
He ends up entering me from behind as I quickly run a couple of fingers covered with my saliva over my sex to facilitate my complete lack of lubrication. He’s small, at least compared to Derek, and there is nothing I want more than to expel him from my body. His moans and romanticism have me wanting to punch him by the time he tells me to turn and suck him, but I plant a slight, stiff smile on my face as I round to his waiting penis. There is nothing impressive about it, and I don’t want to touch it, let alone taste it. But keeping my eyes closed tight, I catapult myself into another world. I imagine I’m sucking Derek, and the moans I hear are his, but every minute or so, I make the mistake of opening my eyes or opening my nose or any other sense that reminds me swiftly and surely that this is not Derek in my mouth.
When he tells me he’s going to come, he unloads more pet names and acts as though he’s too much of a gentleman to come in my mouth. When he pulls from my mouth, I’m hit full in the face with his cum as it squirts disgustingly on my skin. I jump and flinch in shock as the wetness meets my skin, and I instantly want to bathe in bleach. But it’s over. He returns to calling me “sweetie,” and tells me how much he wants to see me again. He’s acting like my damn boyfriend, and my brain imagines screaming every curse I can think of at him. I want to kick him out, but I can’t, and as he caresses and rubs my skin, pretending to care about me, my anxiety starts to rise at his lingering presence and touch. Wasn’t it enough that he should pay for my body and then use it? But to act as though I’m something to him that I’m not disgusts me more than anything he’s done to my body. I smile gently and give nothing away of my hatred for this man I don’t know. He’s given me little reason to hate him. He’s not hurt me. I can’t even say he’s scared me. I should be thankful, but I’m not. He’s disgusted me and nothing more. What did I expect?
When at long last he leaves me with a deep, passionate kiss that makes my stomach turn, I run quickly to the toilet and finally empty my stomach. I sit on the floor naked, staring at the toilet for many long minutes before wiping the remaining cum from my face and crawling to the bathtub. As it fills, I look at myself in the mirror. I have no reason to smile at the woman looking back at me. She disgusts me, and at the moment, I hate her. I want to scream at her in shame and humiliation. I want to hurt her. My self-loathing is so powerful and complete that I stand staring nearly until the bathtub fills to overflowing.
When I make to turn from my image at last, I curse her out loud. “You’re a disgusting whore.”
I flip the light switch, leaving myself in the darkness to feel my way to the tub. When I sink down in the cleansing warmth, I stare out at the nothingness in front of me. I can’t even cry. I don’t deserve to feel sorry for myself.
While I stare into the abyss, I remember my parents. They would be ashamed and humiliated by me could they see me now, and for whatever mistakes my father made, he surely didn’t deserve to have a daughter like me. I could be no more disgusting if my skin were crawling with maggots. I can think only of my parents and what the shock and dismay at my choices would have looked like on their faces. The images of them in my mind are as painful as if they were standing alive in front of me. Can I do this for the next five years? Hate myself? And in the end, will I be left debt free and so filled with self-loathing that life ceases to matter to me anymore?
But as I continue to sink into the very fulfilling act of hating myself, I suddenly catapult upright as the light is flipped on, and I’m flooded with intense and unwelcome light. As I look with squinted and painful eyes to the switch, I see Derek standing there. His face is harsh, angry even, but he can’t hold my eyes, and his gaze shifts to the floor almost instantly. I can’t tell what is going on in his head, and he’s giving me nothing to gauge his feelings by. I sit up, irritated and angry at the intrusion.
“At least keep the lights on so I know you’re not drowning.”
As I watch, his eyes shift from mine once again. He looks around the room, even walks to the toilet where my vomit is left unflushed. After he’s flushed the toilet, he returns to the side of the bathtub, still shifting his gaze from mine continuously. How is it that the man who can freeze me dead in my tracks with his searing and penetrative stare can’t hold my gaze for more than a moment? Do I appall him so much? My resentment of earlier still gnaws at my heart, and I want very much to make him suffer for my pain. He watched me. He must have. He certainly knew what I was doing before he barged in on me. His betrayal hurts deeply.
“Did you enjoy watching him fuck me?” My words are an angry and resentful bite.
He looks at me in shock, as though my question struck him across the face. “No…”
As quickly as his gaze finds mine, it flits away once again, but I won’t let up so easily. “I thought you weren’t going to watch.”
“I tried not to…” He trails off with some hidden emotion plaguing his eyes. The very same eyes he still refuses to show me. My resentment builds further. Could he only look at me … show me some degree of humanity. But he refuses.
“Why won’t you look at me?” My question is filled with accusation, and the hurt that stimulates it.
He thinks long and hard with a furrowed brow and a pained face before swiftly kneeling by the side of the tub and pulling my head to face his, his hands gently but firmly on my cheeks. He stares deeply into my eyes, holding my gaze for the first time since entering.
“Looking at you has never been a problem for me.” But as he speaks, his eyes flit away and his head sinks. He looks like he’s in pain, and I want to exacerbate it. I want to twist it like a knife in his side.
“Like I said, why can’t you look at me?” His face remains down, his head slowly shaking from side to side before he finally gives over to whatever battle he’s been fighting in his soul.
He looks at me harshly, and with a pained and clenched face, he answers, or rather he yells, “Because I feel bad! I feel guilty. Damn it!”
Could I not see the pain behind his eyes, I might mistake his words for anger, but the pain is numbing, and I crumble at its sight. As the first of my tears falls, I turn from his face, but he doesn’t want to lose my eyes now, and he begs. “Please look at me. I need to see you.”
I turn slowly, tears still streaking down my face. He looks intensely at me once again, his confession liberating his eyes from their restraints. He breathes a deep breath and continues to look at me. His eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them. He’s hurting. He’s sharing my pain as much as he’s able, and feeling his own painfully. It means so very much to my wounded and broken soul, so very much more than I ever expected from him. But as I watch him, his eyes slowly close.
“Why are you here?” It’s as good an opportunity as any to ask.
His eyes snap back to mine in confusion. “To make sure you don’t drown yourself.”
But he’s missed the point. “I mean, why are you in this place? You’re miserable. Why do this to yourself? You said you’re here for a reason. What is it?” I want to know. I have to know. He’s using me to torture himself, and for what? But the instant furrow of his brow tells me he won’t be giving up his secrets today, and I have to concede; I get that.
With a final shake of his head, he rises. “It doesn’t concern you. Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He pauses at the door just long enough to remind me that the light stays on, and then he disappears from the room.
When I finally exit the bath, I stand again appraising myself in the mirror. This time, my loathing is faded, and my body is too tired to hate myself. I know he’s watching, and I want him to see me. I collapse into my bed, naked and ready to disappear into sleep, but as I start to relax, my phone rings. When I pick up, he’s there.
“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet.
“No.” It’s the most honest answer I can give him without confessing how much hatred I have for myself at the moment.
“What can I do to make this better for you?”
I think long and hard before speaking. Whatever marginal amount of restraint I normally have is nonexistent at the moment. “Make love to me.”
“You know I can’t do that tonight,” he speaks quietly.
With my hesitation gone, I don’t even attempt to restrain my thoughts. “Hold me.” My words are met with silence, long and lasting. After I tire of waiting for some response, any at all, I end the conversation. “Good night, Derek.” I hang up without hesitation, and without waiting for him to ignore me any longer.
Chapter 19
The warmth of his body next to mine, the strength of his arms as they enclose me in his embrace, the gentle caress of his lips along my naked shoulder, the incredible electrified trail that his fingers burn over every inch of skin that they touch, those are the incredible sensations that I wake to. It takes many long and confusing moments to realize I’m not dreaming. He’s here. He’s with me. The bathroom light is on, and the door cracked. The light filters softly and subtly through to the bedroom, and as my consciousness returns to the present, I register that he’s lying behind me, his body held snuggly to mine.
I reach to his hand that is gently stroking my upper arm as his mouth kisses softly along my shoulder blade. When my fingers reach his, he gently strokes them, and with a whisper, he reassures me. “I’m here, Ash.”
My emotions overcome me and I turn to him swiftly, attacking his mouth with mine. I’ve not tasted these lips in nearly two weeks, and I’ve needed them. He clutches at my face as he returns my passion. His tongue plunges deep into the silken depths of my mouth. He touches every surface and claims every hidden corner. None of the hesitation of our first kiss is present. He’s here, he’s committed to my needs, and I wonder if they aren’t his needs as well.
As his kisses taper off and he searches my eyes, longing for our connection, I open up to him. “Will it always be this hard?”
He thinks, his worry showing visibly on his face. “I don’t ever want this to be easy for you. Not you.” He shakes his head as he looks away, once again lost in his thoughts. But he’s not finished speaking, and when he does, he sets my soul at ease. For how long, I don’t know, but he tells me what I need to hear in this moment. “But I will always be here after they’re finished with your body, to reclaim every inch of what those disgusting men take from you. You belong to me.”
“Do you think I’m gross?” I croak out on a sob of stifled pain, but he reaches back to my cheeks quickly and reassuringly.
“Never…” He’s speaking quietly, and searching my eyes for understanding.
He needs me to understand, but I don’t. Not really at any rate. How can what I’ve done not affect the way he thinks of me? It isn’t possible. He might understand more than anyone else, but he must see me as tainted in some way. Up to this evening, he was the only man to have me, and that had to have meant something—it did to me at least, but now … tainted. I wanted it to only be him. Stupidly, ridiculously… There was never a hope of it, and yet the idea of it kept me afloat these long weeks.
Many quiet minutes later, he’s still watching me, wanting me to understand his words and to let go of my pain, but the memories of this evening are crippling, the images they incite like a fist to the gut. He watches my face carefully, and he gives me time. However detached he may be from the world, he understands my emotions so well. He gives up waiting for any sign of my understanding and chooses instead to comfort me. He pulls me back to his body as I turn my face away from him. He’s not upset, and he stays still behind me. His hand runs gently to my breast and cups me tenderly. While my soul may still be fighting to process the events of the night, my body has given up.
I start to drift off as the gears in my brain continue to turn, and as they do, I speak out loud the thought that is running through my mind. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
My eyes are fluttering closed, but I’m still conscious enough to register that his body has just frozen in place; his breath has stopped. I have no way to know what my words mean to him, but they’ve stopped him cold. I wait for a response of some kind, still sinking with each passing second into a warm, comfortable sleep, and I feel him let a deep breath go.
He leans toward my ear, his lips touching the lobe. “I understand.” He goes silent again. My eyes finally close for the last time, and as they do, he adds to his thought. “If you decide you can’t do this, I’ll take you home.”
The thought in my mind, not intended to be spoken, comes out on a trailing whisper. “I don’t have a home. I don’t have anywhere to go.” I hear the “What?” spoken behind me, but I’m gone down the rabbit hole to my dreams.
* * * *
The next morning, Derek is gone when I wake. I rise and dress in old sweatpants and a T-shirt. I don’t care how the rest of the house sees me, and all I want is coffee. I call Liz, and she comes to my room instantly. She’s worried about me, but when I refuse to go into any detail about the man who bought my time, she gives up quickly, not wanting to upset me. When the conversation turns to Derek and what happened after, I don’t filter the story in any way. While I may not wish to revisit my memories of the portly, romantic stranger I spent my evening with, I have no problem talking to her about Derek. She is the only one in this place that understands just what a disaster I—or is it we?—have created with ourselves, and I need to share with her. She is no longer shocked when I explain the touches, the kisses, the attention. Once my story is told, we leave for the common room.