21 August 2013

Too Often.

He asks me if I want sex like he asks me if I want a pizza. If I say yes, I will have to immediately spread my legs and be hurt again. Maybe I would get myself off in the end, maybe I wouldn’t. Wouldn’t matter.
I am not ready. So I don’t say anything. I change the subject. Truth is, I feel flabby, melted, rotted.  I don’t feel ready to be exposed and used.
He gives me a halfhearted massage full of gropes and uncomfortable pinches and grabs.  My back aches.  I feel more tired than I began.  He asks again, “sex?”  I wonder if we should sync our schedules.
I change the subject again.
He asks me to move over so he can masturbate.  I ask, “really?”  He inquires if I am upset about moving over or that as a human being he needs to jerk off now and then.
I am hurt.  The timer ran out.  I burned my own chances for intimacy, if that was what it was.  It won’t be happening today.  Was that what I wanted?
I slide over, silent, while the bed trembles.  I am staring at the blanket.
I am a useless cunt.
A broken lay.
A waste of energy.

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