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.