After a night full of pints and cigarettes, they retired to his darkened bedroom. Her mind was tired and weak, she was never a good drunk. Their clothes were scattered on the floor around the mattress and with his fingers in her hair, he pulled her head closer so she could take him deeply in her mouth. She was made uncomfortable by the flashing numbers on the alarm clock that screamed 2:00AM, the taste of ale that stained her mouth, and heaviness in her stomach. She pulled his cock out of her mouth before he came.
He immediately rolled over and threatened her. Don't ever do that to me again. You are not allowed to do that to me again. If you cannot swallow, we cannot be. You fucked up. I cannot be with you because you cannot swallow my cum. You made me feel undesirable.
The girl rolled over. Speechless. Her ears could not believe. A silent tear fell. She opened her mouth but words failed her. She knew that she did not need to justify her reason and why would that matter anyway? She felt alone in the city. She had no where to go and no one to call. She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep to the sound of his soft and sleeping breath in lieu of escaping.
She looked at the clock that now screamed 4:00AM. The house was quiet. Soon, the sky will lighten and she will make her departure. She closed her eyes and drifted off. He stirred beside her body. Afterward, he claimed he was asleep and unaware of his actions. But she was awake when he rolled on top of her. She was awake when he pinned her down. She was awake when he fucked her and when he got off and she felt the weight of his aggressive body on top of hers. She was awake when tears rolled down her face and she was awake when he rolled off of her and went back to sleep. She was awake when she wondered what the hell just happened.
She cried for her weakness. She cried for her inability to say something. When he apologized for his selfishness and asked for her back, she stupidly gave in after a handful of angry statements and half-truths. She hated herself for giving in, she hated her weakness, and she grew to hate him.
A month later, he drunkenly called her in the afternoon. He confessed and he slurred. You are nothing but a fraud. You don't know anything. You have too many friends. You are not enough. You are not smart enough. You are not rockabilly enough. With a tinge of sadness, she found the strength to laugh into the telephone receiver. Are you kidding me, she asked him while shaking her head. She hung up, feeling stupid for taking him back - feeling less guilty about that one time she accidentally made out with her old friend from high school when he wasn't sober enough to notice - feeling angry about the money he took from her - feeling completely relieved and humored and rejected all at one.
And he wondered why they were enemies, why she hated him so, why she rejected his touch. She hated him for the money he took from her, for the way he made her feel so unworthy - emotionally and physically, for the terrible things he said that she could now laugh at. But most of all, she hated the stories she heard long afterward; the stories of hitting women and the stories of the curfew he keeps on his wife. Those are the stories that make her shudder. Those are the stories that make her feel selfishly relieved that she got off easy, that she did escape.
The girl feels relieved to finally let this story flow away from her.
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