See item: “What did I do?”
a fierce flash story of power and desire
I had sex with a lecher. Few years ago.
He liked digging his thick and lumpy fingers in the depths of my body.
His hands, to make me come.
Too much older than me, he was scared it couldn’t get up.
He took a coagulant conflicting with blue little pills: a guaranteed heart attack, he told me.
Why risking his life, when he can dig undisturbed in the detained and hospitable heat of my vagina?
He enjoyed slurping his fingers, evoking a deaf and unexpected suction, hit by the fact time was not greedy with him. Yet.
He did not kiss on the lips: a prostitute on the contrary.
Over his fantasy he would have maintained that relationship at the level of possible, sex, then.
Obviously, he could go nowhere with such a youngest lady, considering his two daughters, adoring him, and his wife, hating him. It is a small town, people talk. The burden of shame. Better having that chick at disposal in the secrecy of made-up or forced business trips.
Not to mention that quickening thrill of adrenaline. He could do without love.
Better moving into the borders of possible. Of the concrete and effective chance to touch and enjoy fresh flesh. And so, no kisses on the lips. Only fingers leaks. Not even genital organs, staying inactive between his black and white hairy legs.
For him, I lied. I launched my self in a crazy running over a cliff. I can’t tell you why. Power? Pleasing? Searching-for-a-father syndrome? A crazy well balanced miscellaneous, I suppose.
This ancestral need of being accepted at any cost and finding shelter at any cost? Yes, indeed.
I had lied with an ease I never knew it belonged me.
Without any control and over an overbooking of faith, because someone like me doesn’t do weird things.
Then as a domino effect of being this lecher’s lover, it came a time when I started to avoid him as a ball you throw along a directory on the edge of hitting you on your face. His face, precisely.
I simply rebelled.
I dismissed him in the fiercest way I ever could do: denying myself, humiliating him.
But, there is a but. I allowed him to receive the last gift.
I had moved to another city. Work reasons. Fate gave me a mighty hand to accomplish this irreparable certainty of the end.
He had fumbled behind my back to avoid the river reached the sea, as Meryl Streep in Out of Africa.
He had hurled curses like arrows of a wicked and barren Cupid. But it was impossible. I went away.
A decisive way not to say or reveal a known and unstoppable end. A death of natural causes.
According to him it was just a matter of being in charge.
The dominating and taking-when-he-wants man. How he wants, also.
He boasted of once upon a time, when he was bold and horned, he took one of his pleasing lovers. She was staring at the sink, washing some dishes. He had opened the door to pounce on her, falling her panties and penetrating her. After his climax, he asked her to prepare dinner and to stay naked. Nothing compares to power of reaching out and take what you want. Again.
The way the man behaves.
He deeply wants someone to enslave, thinking women need to be dominated and slammed through a wall.
The man who now is wrinkled and allows himself a careless grief through not kissing a woman on her lips because he is a coward and cowards cannot catch the miracle of love.
So that, I ran away.
I awarded him with the last gift. A negligent sucking as a duty, to please him. A sweet death.
Inside the cockpit of the car, that day, I did not know what was more annoying: his worshiping or the woe feeding me.
The refusal to acknowledge.
I bent over as a machine. One-two. One-two. I need him to come soon, I could not stand that flabby and floppy flesh anymore. That flesh incapable of being turgid.
And then he reached his climax. He sprinkled his womb with his seed, far away from my touch. I was getting away at the right time. I turned my face to the other side, to the street and the noises outside and the light of day coming to its end. In winter. Thin rain turning gray the shapes of passers: a splendid isolation to celebrate that death.
I opened the car door and I did not turn back.
I walked a long before arriving home.
32 unanswered phone calls. The screen of my mobile reprimanded me that way.
I did no care and shoot straight.
To erase him, I had to create a detachment. I did not elaborate and, by doing this way, something of him remained in me.
A day I got an epiphany. There was a safe and effective way to overcome all this: taking back my sexual normality; letting my fluids exchanging with young bodies, penetrating me without any fear, filling my ears with moaning and desire; feeling that sweet burden on my back and the broken sigh of the climax. My heart beat against the one of another person.
Crumpled sheets.
I gave myself without the threat of being possessed or controlled.
I recovered and then I fall in love. Really.
I know I forgot him.
I know I forgive me
I know this experience has been archived under item:
“What the hell did I do?”.
