I wish my pussy had teeth to grind the tip of his penis, chew him off. I wish I could make him scream, take a fork, and pop his eyes out, Stop his alcoholic breath from mixing with my tears. I wish my pussy had teeth.
He began slowly from my legs all the way to my lower thighs as though my body was a piece of an ice cream to be licked by his wormy fingers. I did not like it. I did not want it. I did not feel like it. So, I made an attempt of telling him, that he is drunk and we should try and get some sleep. He only grunted, tried milking his way to my upper thighs, my legs kicking him from behind, his hands struggling and begging to turn me over.
This was after I had waited for him for two hours while he went to watch a football match.
“No. Stop it! Jack! I don’t feel like it!”
His bare hands, now interlocked in a tussle with my clasped thighs in the dark striving to achieve one inglorious moment.
His husky breath reeked of cheap liquor. He spoke in grunts.
“You’re my girlfriend, why are you playing dumb!”
Realizing that I was putting up a fight, He got on top, spiraling my body aloof, pinning my hands over my head. Amidst my kicks he rips off my panty.
Soft skin bruise easily, my thighs must have been soaked in an irrevocable fear. My heart beats. Tears reclining on the shoulders of my eyes.
I have never been more afraid of someone that I claim to love. I have never felt naked and insecure with someone I have been naked and share insecurities with. I never thought that the frightened girl in a horrid vampire movie, walking along a dark alley, would turn out to be me. Never thought Jack would thirst for my blood. He does not deserve to be a vampire. Vampires are the best, at least they tell you not to worry, that it will be over soon, at least they compel you to forget the cold tantalizing night. Vampires can make you enjoy your own anguish. Jack is something else – a nocturnal nightmare – a Serpentine beast.
My mind is racing. I am defenseless. No, this cannot be. This is getting serious. This is getting out of hand. I cannot scream. I cannot walk out. Where will I go? We have been cohabiting, everyone knows. What will they say? That I refused to give my Jack his conjugal rights.
I need an exit plan.
“if you want it, Why not get a condom then.”
I suggest hoping that it would give him time to think.
He gets off the bed, goes to the other end of the room, over his coats, and plucks a packet of condom. He rips it off with his teeth. I can hear the rubber moistening along his shaft as he rolls it on. My eyes shut; folding myself against the wall, I grow numb.
His demonic claws lands on my skin trying to unwind me towards him, I do not bulge. He forces his strength upon me. Should I fight? Fighting will only make it painful and complicated. Fighting will make it worse.
We have been having sex for a while now; why not assume that this is one of those moments? One of those moments that we do something tragic, not because we want to, but because we want to impress someone – the world. It will just pass, right? I won’t remember, right? The mind is not like the internet, it will not remember, right?
“Jack! I don’t want to!”
He slaps me. Doesn’t give me time to think. He is on the go. I am not in the mood. I am not ready for penetration. He rams in anyway. I sob meekly, covering my mouth. No. I will not scream. Not tonight.
His drunken body on my weightless body, thudding, thumping, grunting. I wish I could tell him that he was hurting me. Doesn’t he know that he is hurting me!
He knows it. He feels it and mistakes it for pleasure. I wish my pussy had teeth to grind the tip of his penis, chew him off. I wish I could make him scream, take a fork, and pop his eyes out, Stop his alcoholic breath from mixing with my tears. I wish my pussy had teeth.
My tears trickle along my neck, he is breathing fast. This is his Bliss. A man’s weakness. This is what he lives for – Devouring.
He must have played this episode in his mind repeatedly, while taking pint of pints. No one does things when they are drunk. Drugs do not make people do things. People do things because they want to, because it has been on their mind, because drugs are an excuse to relive one’s fantasy.
He keeps at it. Each time my eyes blowing out, each time feeling like a gigantic ball of meteorite oscillating through my pelvic. I try to cage my pain in small cohorts of mini-cries.
“You are crying?” he shouts, “you are crying because I am fucking you?”
He pushes in, and out some more. My lower abdomen tries to distant itself from him, but it is caged and rooted along his pelvic.
“Guess what, I like it”
“Jack, you’re hurting me…” I plead. No. I sob. No. I cry. No. I’m weeping.
“No baby, I’m not hurting you, I’m just punishing you.”
Stop it! Leave me alone! I don’t fucking know what the hell I am doing anymore. I don’t fucking know. I’m just there, existing for the devil’s muse. Lying with my back against the bed, legs spread, taking in shots and shots, punches and punches. I do not feel. I must be dying. I am dying. Please help me. Is there anyone out there listening? There is only darkness, and movable joints, sweat and grease, grunts and pleas.
He tries to chase after his breath.
“That was amazing” He exclaims as I toss him over. He pulls out the condom and throws it on the floor, asking me to get rid of it. He begins to snore immediately.
I head to the washroom. I kick utensils as I stagger. I put on the lights. I sway aside the utensils with my legs. There is a kitchen knife on the floor I ignore it. I do not want to stare at myself. It is dark. I am not thinking. My tears are stranded. I am not broken. I cannot be broken. Am I broken? Do not look at me that way, I am not broken. He is Jack, my boyfriend, we just had sex. There is nothing wrong with that. But you didn’t want it. You were crying. You are still crying. He hurt you. Maybe. Stop talking to me. Leave me alone!!!
This relationship has been falling off the wagon since time in memorial, but we swore to work through it, although all the signs pointed to the door, Jack said that he still loved me, and I loved him back. It was a love that fed off our insecurities the same way a vampire feeds off a victim. We had our set of fear. Fear of starting over with someone new. Even perfect relationship has its moments, but the wounds of our past sins were beyond the reproach of forgiveness. Each plotted in solitary for the downfall of the other. He was the first one to have his due. It was about time I had mine.
Heading back to bed, my steps landed on the wooden handle of the knife. I knelt down, picked it up, and as I slowly rose, something rose within me, a dark shadow; it was cold, hurt, and static with burning eyes.
I stared over at Jack who was now peaceful.
The dark shadow clawed inside me, begging to be let out. I could not think. I only heard my cries, my plea and Jack’s breath shutting me down. All these were reflected in the shadow.
The knife, I ran my fingers along its edges, felt its soul aligning into mine. We had an unspoken communion. We thirsted for something, for blood, for vengeance, for anything that could get us through the night. I was the vessel, it was the tool. The shadow took control.
Jack was snoring silently; I slid into bed, and laid beside him.
He was now peaceful in his sleep.
I was still staring into darkness.
As written by Phill Ibsen, Master of Descriptions
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