we go out on the balcony.
it's a habit we've formed, whenever you stay over. a little shared respite for the two of us. we go out when it's long past sundown, when the only light comes from the moon above and the little lantern over the door.
you don't smoke, and I don't drink. so I lean against the railing with my cigarette, and you sit on the wicker chair with your whiskey, legs sprawled apart. we look at each other.
dating going well? you ask, and I scoff, rubbing my forehead with the back of my hand. what do you think? I answer. I'm here, aren't I?
today was another date. another girl. another two hours on hinge before sighing and accepting good enough. I knew it wasn't going to go anywhere. but I never think it'll go anywhere. so far, I've been right.
it was fine, I say. she was fine. sweet.
yeah? you say, shaking your glass to watch the liquor swirl. not your type?
I shrug. nothing wrong with her, I say. just not what I want.
you look at me like I didn't answer your question. which is frustrating, because I did, and you're expecting more from me anyway. you frustrate me a lot.
she's too nice, I guess, I say. they're all too nice. too cautious. too understanding. always tiptoeing around me, always skirting the boundaries they imagine I have. it's all so. boring.
you want someone who isn't nice? you ask.
I sigh. I guess so, I say. something like that. someone who wants me because they want me, not because they want me to be happy, and they know what makes me happy is being wanted. you know? there's a difference there, and if you don't get it you don't get it. and it's not like they're doing anything wrong. jesus, they're terrified of doing anything wrong. that's the problem.
I turn to lean my elbows on the railing, facing away from you, dragging from my cigarette. with how dark it is, the fall below looks endless. I don't know, I say.
what else do you want? I hear you say as you move closer, joining me, looking out too. our arms are brushing.
I blush, and look down, but without looking up I know you won't let us move on without me answering. you'll just keep looking at me, and I'll crumble, like always.
I guess I want someone who overwhelms me, I say. someone who pushes and takes and doesn't apologize. ask forgiveness, right? I joke, but you don't laugh, you just keep listening quietly. someone who scares me a little, I say, in a quieter voice, like I'm sharing a secret. I probably am. someone who wants to hurt me. someone who wants to make me cry. someone who wants as sickly and painfully as me, I say.
the cigarette's burnt out, just an ember between my fingers, so I flick it into the dark and watch it float down. it lasts a few seconds before flickering out and vanishing.
you're not saying anything. I don't turn to look. I hear you raise your drink up and finish it. I hear you put the glass on the railing. I hear you sigh. I hear your knuckles crack.
I hear cicadas in the distance, late night cars driving by, but you're so much louder.
you look cold, I hear you murmur. I hear you take your jacket off, feel it get draped over my shoulders. in your pretty red dress, you say, fixing the shoulders. all dressed up.
it sounds demeaning, from your lips, and I feel myself shiver.
turn around, you say, so I do.
you're in front of me now, pressed up close. very close. close enough that I can't escape your eyes, your hair, your lips. you look natural, draped in shadow.
you reach forward to tug the collar of the jacket around my neck.
I wouldn't let you go home cold, you say. if it were me.
if it were you? I say, and it's shameful how weak it sounds, how small.
if it were me, on those dates. pretty thing like you, I don't think I'd let you go home at all, you say.
I murmur your name, blushing, trying to turn away before your hand comes our, holding my head in place. you're closer now. I can feel the heat of your breath brush against my face.
should've told me what you needed earlier, you say, your voice heavy. you know how awful it's been, listening to you complain? every single time, you come home in these- these tiny little slutty dresses and this makeup and these necklaces and you're so distraught and sad and do you know how much patience it takes to not just give you what you so obviously need? you know how long I've been thinking about this?
I'm trembling now, and you are too. our mouths are open and we're breathing heavily but when I lean forward you lean back, catching my head in your hand, holding me in place. I whine.
poor thing. you say, with no pity in your voice. what's wrong? what's wrong?
I move to answer but you pull my hair first, a harsh sting that interrupts me. what's wrong, baby? you say, biting at my jaw. I've never seen you this intense before, this uncontrolled. it's almost scary. what's wrong? you want to get fucked, is that it? do you need it, baby? more than anything?
I try to talk, again, but you pull my hair and bite behind my ear so I just whimper and nod, and nod, and nod, until you're sucking hickeys into my neck and murmuring it's okay, it's okay, it's okay baby I'm going to treat you right, going to give what you need, going to make you feel all better.
and then you're tugging me away from the balcony edge, but my legs are so unsteady that I just slump to the ground, and you shove me until I'm sprawled on my back. you look so big here, so broad, the moon lining up behind you, casting your face in shadow and making the loose strands of your hair glow silver.
you're so fucking pretty, I realize. so fucking gorgeous it's painful. I went on those dates because I couldn't have you. I knew they wouldn't work because they weren't you. it was always about you, always, always.
I look up at you. I turn my head and close my eyes, burying my nose in your jacket. I inhale, long and slow and deliberate. it smells like smoke, and cologne, and you. all you.
I hear your breath shake above me. I hear you swallow, hear you whisper. fuck, you say. fuck, liz.
your lift your foot and set it on my stomach. thick, sturdy black boot. harsh soles. dirt on my pretty red dress. I don't think you care. something's telling me the dress won't survive till morning.
you press your toe in, just under my ribs. I whine, and squirm, but it just makes you press deeper, harsher.
I whine your name. you don't respond. you press your heel into my lower stomach, and I'm squirming, again, but different this time, all flushed and breathy. you can't tell whether I'm writhing to get away from your boot or press myself further into it.
you shift it down. you press your heel into my crotch, unceremoniously.
fuck, I say, thin and watery. fuck, fuck-
you grind your heel down, and I cry out, my hips jumping against it in little erratic thrusts. you wonder just how fucking stupid someone would have to be to let me go home alone, when I'm this easy. this obvious.
please, I say, looking up at you, my voice broken. please, please-
you reach down and grab my hair, pulling me up to kneeling. I'm thrown off-balance, but I cling onto your leg well enough, straddling your boot. I look up at you, eyes all pretty and watery, long black lashes and glittery eyeshadow.
hump, you say, grabbing the whiskey. I moan, some broken sound, grabbing the back of your calf and desperately grinding against you. it's not enough, blunt over my dress and my panties, but I'm still rutting against you like it might be, like it could be enough. I don't know if I can ask for more. I don't want to try. you walking away right now would be the worst thing to ever happen to me.
please, I say, quiet and muffled against your thigh. aimless, demandless. I pray even that's not too much.
I hear the bottle open, hear you take a swig. look up, you say. close your eyes.
the whiskey splatters over my face, cold and sticky. it gets in my hair, gets on my dress, my lips slip open and a drop slides into my mouth. it tastes awful.
fuck, I say. I'm embarrassed and hot and flushed and angry that worked, that I'm more desperate now, gross and dirty at your feet, letting you do this all to me. letting you use me, degrade me, ruin me. letting you break me.
your hand's in my hair, and the bottle's at my lips. I'm going to count down, you say. I'm going to count down, and if you haven't cum by then, I'm going to make you drink. you'll drink until you cum. even if you have to finish the bottle.
I'm sober, I say, weakly.
I know, you grin. that's the fun part. get going, pup.
fuck. fuck. I say, or I think. I'm not sure anymore. I feel fear, real fear, because I know you're serious. you always are. I know you're counting, and I don't even know from what. 1000? 100? 10? the bottle shifts against my lips, and I freeze, but it doesn't tilt up. not yet.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I can't cum like this, but maybe I can. maybe I have to.
there's nothing else I can do. I hump and I think. I think about tonight and how quickly this all happened. I think about you staring at me every time I came home and complained about another shitty date. I think about us on the couch after, me in my makeup and skimpy little outfit I thought would make the date go better. maybe you never understood why I bothered when they all went the same way. I didn't either.
I think about our legs pressed against one another, on that couch. I think about your hand on my thigh. I think about your hands on my tits. I think about your lips and teeth and voice. I think about your fingers inside me I think about your chest and your stomach and your ass, I think about your cock and your cunt and your hair and how fucked up you are for doing this, any of this, how you haven't really even asked for consent yet and some annoying lingering lesson from high school is ringing alarm bells in the back of my mind. I think about how that's getting me off. I think about how I hope it's getting you off, too. I think about being fucked up. I think about being gross. wrong. dirty. nasty. fucked-out girl humping a boot with liquor poured sloppily over her. who would do that, who would want that? me, you, us. us. us. you.
god, you. I waited so long for you to want me.
I cum, with a muffled cry into your inner thigh. fuck. god. fuck. fuck, I'm so fucked.
it takes me a second to come down. I'm clutching your leg like it's the last thing I have left. when I draw away, blinking, it feels sticky and wet where my face was.
you crouch down, and I slump into you. cmon, you say. let's get you inside.
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