by Isabella Ling
One of his roommates is sleeping on his right, his other roommate is fucking my friend on my left. I lie on his bed on under the blanket with him. We kiss without passion, without feelings. I can't feel his tongue, I can't taste him. I want to stop, I don't. He smells good, but his breath is rancid.
I am now naked under the sheets, as I know my friend is too. He climbs on top her, he made me climb on top of him. There is no blanket on top of me anymore. I am exposed, my breasts left hanging. I feel disgusted, ashamed and maybe a little thrilled that this is happening. Fucking someone who doesn't have his own room, someone who can't be bothered to pull up the blanket over me to respect my privacy and modesty. Yet, what modesty do I have when I chose to do this, right? Choose to fuck someone beside my friend, to see my friend's legs bend at awkward angles as she moaned and groaned.
He pushes himself into me, I hardly felt a thing, not because he is small, because I am accustomed to a bigger size. There is no foreskin, which I like, it makes no difference on him. I start to rock my hips, half-heartedly. I tried not to think of him, him the with the foreskin and the bigger dick and the druggie eyes. He hardly moved, he wants me to do the work, I hate being on top and not having any help. Lazy motherfucker. He slips out and proceed to make me his dog. He starts to move faster, more furious. I make no sound, I thought to myself, please just let him come now. It went on for a long time, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the sounds of her repressed moans. I wonder if she is coming, I wonder if she peeped at me. I wonder, I wonder, is this torture worth it.
I hear them and I watch them from the corner of my eye. I think of him again, of how he forcefully kissed me when I was crying. I want to cry now, but his lips won't be here to meet mine. He told me he won't let me down, he told me see you soon, he told me take care when I left. I thought, take care and see you soon doesn't go together. I think of how he squeezed my throat when he was fucking me, I think of how I like it. Calls were left unanswered, what's the difference this time? Was if because I cried? Maybe he found another one to fuck. I think again and again, how he only looks for me when he is drunk, how open we are when we're drunk. I like the way we are when we're drunk, is it possible to be that way even when we're not drunk?
He takes himself out of me and lay down beside me, I finished him off because it was only polite to do so.
My friend walks to the toilet, they start to talk about us while I lie in between them. Useless bastards, I thought. Who is cheaper, you or me? This is supposed to make me feel better, what the fuck was I thinking? I am here to forget, to try and forget. She and I walk home under the gray morning sky two hours later, she with her first experience of fucking a white man and me thinking, won't you just call me, please? I smile bitterly as I remembered I have only known him for less than a month.
Isabella Ling thinks too much and does nothing. She hates herself for tearing when she wrote this. Her least favourite English word is take care. It basically means I won't be seeing you again or at least for the next ten years and which by then I won't remember you, so yeah, take care.