Out of Convenience
fourth
R was your first time.
It came as no surprise (to you, anyway). You told yourself it was bound to happen – his hands had become increasingly familiar with your body, especially the space between your legs, so you thought you’d feel comfortable with him.
It seemed fitting that it happened at a party. You had decided to drink two full cups of citron mixed with lemonade—a combination so sweet and dangerous you could hardly taste the vodka—along with an endless number of fireball shots (and who knows what else because reality was fogged, your memories quick, blurry wisps of faces and sounds). He hardly spoke to you, save for his brief greeting when you arrived, but his distance was customary. Although you were there to enjoy yourself, you couldn’t help your wandering gaze as he sat too close to Brenda A. So you began drinking, and by the end of the night, you were numb and incoherent.
That’s when he noticed you. Most of the girls he’d been pursuing (or tried to) were gone, leaving you and your friends as the remaining female guests. You vaguely remember asking one of his roommates about him, and then his hand was gripping your own, leading you down the hall and into his bedroom.
You only remember it in fragments:
He couldn’t look you in the eyes the next day and didn’t talk to you for a month afterwards – (probably) due to your loud, drunken announcement that he didn’t know how to please a woman.
And for the first time, he made you feel like the scum between the tiles of his dirty home; attached to the counters, the toilet, the floor. He made you feel worthless.
It came as no surprise (to you, anyway). You told yourself it was bound to happen – his hands had become increasingly familiar with your body, especially the space between your legs, so you thought you’d feel comfortable with him.
It seemed fitting that it happened at a party. You had decided to drink two full cups of citron mixed with lemonade—a combination so sweet and dangerous you could hardly taste the vodka—along with an endless number of fireball shots (and who knows what else because reality was fogged, your memories quick, blurry wisps of faces and sounds). He hardly spoke to you, save for his brief greeting when you arrived, but his distance was customary. Although you were there to enjoy yourself, you couldn’t help your wandering gaze as he sat too close to Brenda A. So you began drinking, and by the end of the night, you were numb and incoherent.
That’s when he noticed you. Most of the girls he’d been pursuing (or tried to) were gone, leaving you and your friends as the remaining female guests. You vaguely remember asking one of his roommates about him, and then his hand was gripping your own, leading you down the hall and into his bedroom.
You only remember it in fragments:
------His lips sloppily moved against your own, but you stopped him because you thought you were a bad kisser.
------He was scrawled across his bed, pants discarded as he urged you to touch him.
------You were standing as he pulled your shirt over your head, unhooked your bra, unbuttoned your pants, and removed your underwear.
------You were on top of him, naked and thinking it was unfair he removed your clothes so eagerly when he was still wearing his shirt.
------He told you to lie down, and then he was inside of you. Your mind was still muddled, body still numb, so the pain was barely there. You told him he wasn’t doing anything to make you feel good, and he ignored you.
------Darkness.
------Your eyes opened as he lifted your legs in the air. He moved too quick, too rough, and though you asked him to slow down, he kept up his pace. It started to hurt then, and you couldn’t quiet your groans of discomfort, so he told you to shut up. Then he put his hands over your mouth. You tried to shake them off, your head lolling to the slide sluggishly before you decided to give up.
------Darkness.
------Your eyes opened again and his face was hovering over yours, contorted in an agape expression that disgusted you.
------Darkness.
------When you opened your eyes for the final time, he told you he came. You were disappointed that you didn’t.
------He was scrawled across his bed, pants discarded as he urged you to touch him.
------You were standing as he pulled your shirt over your head, unhooked your bra, unbuttoned your pants, and removed your underwear.
------You were on top of him, naked and thinking it was unfair he removed your clothes so eagerly when he was still wearing his shirt.
------He told you to lie down, and then he was inside of you. Your mind was still muddled, body still numb, so the pain was barely there. You told him he wasn’t doing anything to make you feel good, and he ignored you.
------Darkness.
------Your eyes opened as he lifted your legs in the air. He moved too quick, too rough, and though you asked him to slow down, he kept up his pace. It started to hurt then, and you couldn’t quiet your groans of discomfort, so he told you to shut up. Then he put his hands over your mouth. You tried to shake them off, your head lolling to the slide sluggishly before you decided to give up.
------Darkness.
------Your eyes opened again and his face was hovering over yours, contorted in an agape expression that disgusted you.
------Darkness.
------When you opened your eyes for the final time, he told you he came. You were disappointed that you didn’t.
He couldn’t look you in the eyes the next day and didn’t talk to you for a month afterwards – (probably) due to your loud, drunken announcement that he didn’t know how to please a woman.
And for the first time, he made you feel like the scum between the tiles of his dirty home; attached to the counters, the toilet, the floor. He made you feel worthless.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'll probably edit this later. It was hard to describe that moment.