“That day, last year, I knew I had to save you.”
She whines. “I know.”
“I was scared, but I knew it. I knew it.”
She whines more. Her vision gets splotched. “I know.”
“When I think of it, when I see—”
She interrupts. “Okay.”
He’s confused. “What?”
She looks at him plainly. “Okay.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
She won’t lose to the blackness with him here, nor will she give him a moment’s thought that when he saved her, he didn’t actually save her. That part of her was gone. She won’t put it in his head, not when it’s so important to him that it not be in hers. And, by the way, who’s to say. Maybe he wants sex for a reason(s). Maybe they’re the same reasons she wore this shirt, shaved her pussy, asked her parents if she could come here—all for him, so he can get better. Maybe her vagina can fix what her cowardly love cannot, and he deserves to be fixed, even at her expense.
If you were there when it happened, you’d understand.
I just gotta do this.
She looks at him plainly again. “Do you want me to take off my clothes? Or do you want to do it?”
“No, I can do it.”
He moves toward her. She holds out her hand. “Take off my shoes, alright?”
“I won’t forget your shoes.”
His lips brush her lips. She doesn’t kiss back. If she starts to feel, she’ll get overwhelmed, and he’ll be upset again. She tells herself: Don’t feel. And: Just do it. She’s motionless while he undoes the straps of her shoes, then allows him to grab her shirt, her arms above her and the cotton catching her hair.
She screeches! He crawls into his shell.
“Actually, can I leave it on? It’s cold.”
He nods, yet says, “Will you take off your bra?”
That annoys her. It’ll be over soon.
Arms inside her shirt, she pulls out her bra before reaching inside the top. By accident, her breasts fall out the bottom. It stirs him and he bunches the loose fabric at her sides. She’s frozen. So is he. Until, in concert, her arms mindlessly lift and the fabric lies inside out on the ground. Okay, that was weird. She pats down her hair, watches as he removes his own shirt, then touches his chest before she lies on her back, elbows dug into the ground, to elevate her butt and allow those hands to bunch her skirt with her panties, then—as one unit—strip both down her thighs, past her adjoined knees, towards her ankles and, afterwards, he stares between the small gap in her legs.
She prefers he not make a total ass out of himself.
Plus, she needs him to hurry up.
“Are we going to do it?”
He nods, then removes his pants, then reaches in his pants.
He’s holding a condom.
“Just give me a second.”
She hears the aluminum seal rip and feels better. At least he’s still protecting her, still worrying. Don’t think. Don’t feel. “It’s good that you brought it.”
He seems good at getting it on. It only takes him a second. He’s near her again, trying to separate her legs only to find a lifetime of negative reinforcement has flooded her. (As a little girl, every time she sat or lay, her mother hit her thigh and told her to keep her legs crossed). She cannot open them. She cannot even breathe. The fuzzy vision is full on. She only kinda makes him out.
I can’t do this.
He whispers. “It’s alright, there’s nothing to worry about.”
He succeeds since her muscles have turned to jelly. She stares at what hangs between his legs, black in the night. It looks bigger than it felt. The thought scares her. Shut up, it’ll be over soon. His hand has taken it, then lowered it; and that does it. Now a penis has touched her vagina. It scares her, and she looks away. Don’t think. Don’t think. He pushes her lips apart and she pays attention to every part of her body but it. He digs further, inward and she scrunches her cheeks. You’re not a slut. He’s earned it. That thought accomplished the opposite of its intent. It lets loose the blackness to parade around. It’s not… It’s not like usual. The drugs, or the alcohol, like before, it’s put, like, a padded wall between it and… Shut up. Shutting up returns her to her vagina, where his digging is now pushing, and his pushing is quick and jaded. It’s just a penis. That’s all. It’s nothing else. He’s making progress, yet still struggles. A tear is down her cheek. He’s too preoccupied to notice, and she wipes it away.
I don’t want this.
“Stop!”
He does as he is told. “What?”
She breathes heavily. She feels stupid. It’s not about you. It’s about him. She finds resolve. “Nothing, keep going.” He’s against her entrance again. He’s having difficulty again. It’ll be over soon. She closes her eyes. Tries to count to ten. Ignore the blackness. Stay disconnected. Her throat burns. Why can’t he hurry up? With every false entrance, she becomes less confident in the procedure. Let something in her? What crazy idiot thought that was any way to reproduce? She pulls back her soaked hair. Maybe her sweat, maybe his. No, it’s tears. She’s crying.
I don’t want to. I don’t!
“Stop!”
“What is it?”
Again she gasps for breaths between words. “Can’t I just jerk you off or something?”
“What?”
“I’ll give you a blowjob. You’ve never had that before.”
A bit to her surprise, he agrees.
She sits up and wipes her eyes. She does it in that quick way which makes it look like something got in her eyes and not that she was crying. He’s on his knees and he asks what he should do with the condom. She looks at him confused. It’s gone. Once it is, she stabilizes herself against his stomach, and leaning over from her own knees, puts his penis in her mouth. He moans instantly. She tries to go as fast as she can, but her teeth brush against him every fourth movement. That’s wrong. To fix it, she tucks in her chin and opens her jaw until it pops, then flexes her lips a tight seal. He gets even louder with his moans. Her tongue gets salty. She thinks it means he’s ready to go, so she goes faster, but nothing happens until he uses her hand to jerk him off. That makes sense, and she does it herself. He must be close. He sounds like this behind the chapel, but his hips get a bit too active and he falls out of her mouth.
Just as well, she’s starved for air.
She forgot to breathe.
He waits as she catches her breath. Before she starts again, she looks up at him. He’s looking at her. It’s intense. And a bit scary. But, it’s not, because his mouth is on hers, and when she’s not kissing him, she’s breathing into his mouth. You shouldn’t kiss him—not with your mouth, not now. He’s got his hand somewhere on her body. She can’t be sure. They’re everywhere. In her ear, he says, “I love you, Sykosa. I love you.” Her tummy gets tight at it. Her mind gets dark from it. She wants to say it. She wants to. He needs to hear it. She should fuck him. Fuck him now. Fuck him before he bleeds to death. But, she doesn’t, she just puts him back in her mouth, then goes at his penis with all the speed, intensity, and meager skill she can. It’s no different from busywork. It keeps her here, but inside, the attack has started, and if not for the fact that she was constantly moving, she would be unable to be still. Keep going. Which she does, and doesn’t relent, not one iota, until the cum, which usually flows down her hand, fills her mouth in globs.
She doesn’t leave him until he’s stopped.
They look at each other momentarily.
For some reason, she swallows. She didn’t think about it, and it wasn’t too bad, but he came a lot, so she had to lap the inside of her mouth with her tongue, then swallow again. That time she looked like she had just taken bad cough medicine.
He reaches out to hug her. She feels no better in his arms.
The hug is too warm, too tender—too loving.
She breaks into tears.
Don’t lose control
. Don’t show him. Don’t let him see…
He’s confused and trying to calm her, holding her again.
“What’s the matter?”
She whines. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t, I don’t know why.”
“Couldn’t what?”
“I told you you could, and I… I’m always screwing up.”
He holds her intently. “No, this was fine. It’s nothing.”
Except, it’s not. It’s almost like a metaphor. He needs. She promises. And then never delivers…ever. Meanwhile, he’s the one suffering and the one apologizing. She cries, losing herself to convulsions, unable to oppose their explosions. She talks like nothing’s wrong. “We’ll do it later. I said I will and I will.”
“No, it’s alright.”
She sniffles, and considers it, then rejects it. I ruined it. Our first time and I… “No, you’re gonna be mad, you will be.”
“I’m not gonna be mad at you. I’m not.”
When he said that, he put his hand on her cheek.
She felt the scars.
And the glass. Of the third pane of glass window.
Tearing her to shreds like it tore him to shreds.
@@rf
“Just don’t be mad at me, okay? Please don’t.”
“I’m not.”
“Tom, I…”
Blackness.
XII.
By morning, she has and has not become herself again.
The thought, as she stares in the mirror like she’s contemplating womanhood or something equally pretentious, reminds her of bad made-for-TV movies. She still stares like she stared when she stood in front of her mirror and picked her turquoise undies. She believed (somewhat) that, after this weekend, he would meet her behind the chapel and life would go on—handjobs and all.
Not true.
This sex thing won’t be a one-time or even a two-time deal.
It’s going to change everything. Maybe it already has.
She awoke to find she was sore as hell down there. It was a surprise—and not. Truth is, she doesn’t know how far he got before she stopped him, but she remembered that, one time, it was at the very last second. Which was, I guess, a second too late. Even so, that’s not her primary worry. Last night, she… Well, he learned her dirty little secret, the reason she waits for him behind the chapel and goes to such distances for him.
He met the blackness.
And that’s going to change everything.
Maybe it also already has.
To just put it bluntly, she’s horny. (And extremely volatile). Which is fine. (Maybe). She gets horny a lot. (This never ends well). She even masturbates slightly more often than she thinks is normal. (She just rubbed herself. It was uncomfortable, but she wanted to make sure everything still worked). It’s not that, though, it’s the timeline, or the lack thereof. Events aren’t chronological. The panic will do that. So perhaps it’s good to feel horny. And perhaps she’s lucky that’s all she feels. If she’s reckless, the weight will come, then the breathing problems, followed by her skewed eyesight and her sickly tummy…
The Pep Squad is on standby.
Relax.
It cannot stop her thinking.
Obviously, she remembers the early evening, and the time on the blanket—the joy of his hand and the BJS of her mouth. Where it gets somewhat hazy is later. When she came to, she was wrapped in the blanket and in him. She offered little explanation, as her senses were not yet working together. When she got back to the party, she found a relentless (and empty) energy was driving her. She knows she went shot-for-shot with Niko (bad idea). Niko had her Aikido headband on and, after each victorious round, blew up her cheeks fat as a teapot and pounded her feet like a Sumo wrestler. Tom didn’t think the game should continue. She remembers listening to him. And she remembers him protecting her from whatever dangers surrounded her that she could no longer comprehend. They got all touchy-feely at one point, but neither felt it was a good idea to risk repeating what had happened outside. He wanted her to talk about it. She refused. It happened in this bedroom, which—around 4:30 AM—he and somebody, maybe Timmy, moved the dresser to access. Lastly, she recalls her collapse, wrapped in his arms and legs, her head being pet while her mouth tasted like throw up.
Last night was eventful.
A boy touched my vagina and put himself in my vagina. I put him in my mouth and slept in a bed with him and…
(Went black before him).
She knew that E was a bad idea. She knew it.
And I did it, anyway. I’m so stupid.
She came here to get some water and to escape the bedroom, which smells rancid. She also needed some space. She needs him now. She unlocks the door to the darkness. Her eyes adjust and see him sleeping on his stomach. She climbs into bed, then lowers her giant tee-shirt so it recovers her vagina. She needs underwear. It’s too hard to find them. She curls as close to him as she can without disturbing him. She cannot sleep. I fucked up big time. He knows something’s wrong with me. He knows he didn’t save her, that she is broken, and that possibly negates the value of his sacrifice.
And she did so so close to its one-year anniversary.
That makes her feel sick.
I should’ve just done it. It was a mistake not to.
That statement invites the blackness. It’s edgier today than it usually is. It feels powerful. She’s gonna need his help.
Like that, he gives it.
His tired, heavy body grinds itself to life like construction machinery and, like construction machinery, it has, with massive torque and little speed, applied her body against him. She was careful to split their legs and crossed her arms over her chest to help. He’s fallen back to sleep and she refuses to disturb him. The minutes pass. It all leaves her. Her despair. Her fear. The weight she never felt but was there anyway. Her horniness. It all leaves. And the heat in the secreted liquid of her canal has become dry, in drought, burned itself up in a scorching that causes her to sweat all over.
He does, too.
It’s soaked her tee-shirt. It’s also too much for him. And he separates, rolling onto his back. She rolls with him and lies atop his chest.
He sounds like he’s in the middle of a nightmare. “Sykosa?”
“Yes.”
“I’m too hot.”
She understands. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to sleep longer?”
“Yes, sleep. I want to sleep.”
“Okay.”
Her body is slick, slightly slipperier than the soap, and it, her stink of vodka, sperm and tobacco, will not wash away. It does eventually and the water stops and she drips onto the toilet seat. Her piss stinks, too. Beside the towel rack hangs a bathrobe of stitched yellow stars and silver moon pockets. It hangs from her person as she tiptoes along the bedroom floor. He still slumbers with his face seemingly happy. That’s good. After all, she did suck his dick. That has to somewhat even out the freak show she turned into. Maybe if I sleep with him today, he’ll forget the whole thing. [Blackness]. She thinks she should climb back into bed and be held by him. Instead, she searches for her clothes. It’s hard since, like their bodies, their wardrobes have combined. Her bra is in his pant leg and his shirt has knotted with her grass-stained v-neck, long sleeve.
Damnit, I liked this shirt.
She forgets it.
The undercarriage of her turquoise panties is stained, north-to-south, like blood streaked snot. It’s disgusting. And difficult to ignore. That’s proof, isn’t it? I lost my virginity. She goes ahead and quarantines them in a mini-compartment of her bag, then from another compartment, trades it for one of her shoplifted thongs. Then she snaps internally. I should fuck him this moment, that way I can fuck up this pair too. That’s it. He’ll fuck her and she’ll lay around bleeding like a dying animal. Then, her eyes can go crazy and her lungs go… Why even have relationships if you’re gonna fuck things up like you did last night? And, hey, it gets bet
ter, remember? This sex thing isn’t a one-time thing, or a two-time thing, it’s the rest of her life—so she fucked up permanently, and now might as well just resign herself, then go downstairs and fuck Clyde, fuck Timmy, and back in Seattle, suck off the Stars and every dick in sight.
Cause she’s “gorgeous.”
Cause she’s “sexy.”
Cause she’s “beautiful”
She’s “perfect,” “an angel,” for heaven’s sake.
Daddy’s little cum bucket.
(Did she mention the volatility?)
She tells herself to shut up. She lost her virginity. Nothing’ll fix that. Besides who gives a shit if she bled a tiny bit? He bled more, and he suffered more, and he never complains about it, and he never asks for a thank you, and he never dangles it over her head, even last night he coulda used that to have sex with her. It woulda worked, and he knows it woulda, and she knows it woulda, but that’s not what he did—he stopped.
And he said, “I love you.”
He did say that, didn’t he?
She is back at bedside. “Tom?”
He is annoyed. “I need twenty minutes.”
“I love you.”
Come on, say it… Please, say it!
(It’s her first time saying “I love you.” He doesn’t notice).
“I love you, too.”
Thank you.
“I’ll bring you some coffee, okay?”
“In twenty minutes.”
“In twenty minutes.”
Downstairs, the television plays, on loop, the title sequence of a video game where a woman, in a red dress and black jacket, is instructed that, in order to save the world, she must arouse as many teenage boys as possible, and if she’s not busy, destroy the run-a-muck Artificial Intelligence computer that’s exterminated the inhabitants. Maybe Timmy was one of them. His body is up against the wall, his head draped over his shirt, where a tiny pool of drool collects. Clyde’s passed out, however he fell, on the couch. Curiously, SS1 is passed out on top of him, however she fell. Turns out his smile did work last night. Turns out the girl wasn’t over eighteen. Then, there’s the table top, which is dusty in cocaine.
She stares at it until Clyde coughs some nasty ass phlegm.
Sykosa, Part I: Junior Year Page 26