trigger warnings and all that

"Wait, no, baby. It's going to feel so good in a second, just let me put it in..."

She thinks of pickled cucumbers still in the spirit vinegar brine, salt and vinegar chips, dried sour figs with salty nectar insides.

She thinks about the time she fingered herself and then stopped because she didn't know herself when she was having an orgasm, and she was afraid she'd awake her parents.

About how she had to give him a blow job for twenty minutes just for him to put himself inside of her without even looking to see if she was wet.

She'd asked him if he'd ever let her sit on his face and he told her that anything his mouth can do, his penis can do better.

He was also a very bad kisser. He kisses like he's rushing to get to the good part.

This is the good part, she always thought to herself. Didn't he like women? Didn't he like pleasuring women?

She had the strangest impulse to strangle him. Wrap her hands around his thick throat and watch how long it took for him to suffocate. That this is how she felt. Suffocated.

Horny and suffocated.

That it didn't matter what his penis could do for her, she wanted to f*****g sit on his face.

She turned away from him. And could almost hear his face falling, plummeting to earth from his pedestal amid the clouds. That he hated her when she became like this.

She knew it, but, this time, she couldn't control herself.

It was difficult to play nice when she wasn't feeling very generous. That it couldn't wait, her insatiable sexual hunger, her murderous frustration.

The mound between her labia and vaginal entrance was numb and unfeeling, raw with stimulation. 

She needed to get her nails cut, she thought privately.

But that she'd rather use it to pick out his green olive eyes from his bone skull, put them between her lips and swallow. Lick at the pomegranate blood that would stain her lips.

She didn't want him to look at her while she did it, while she touched her clitoris to his open, gaping mouth. It was something she wanted to enjoy...by herself.

The vagina wasn't the only thing that had a hole, men had so many of them, she thought.

She fanaticized about forcing her pinky finger between the slit of his penis and seeing how far it would go. Would it reach his balls? What were they called again? Testicles.

"Come on. What is it now? Still the face thing? Other girls never ask me to do things like that. I mean, I'm big. You know. Isn't that what women like?" said the man, who she had been dating on and off again for the last three years. 

That it was thrilling in the beginning. Having him want to put it inside of her all the time, feeling wanted. Those olive-green eyes had felt like the Sun then. She wanted nothing more than for him to look at her. That had been enough.

Now, she didn't know if anything he did would ever satisfy her. She had grown to become insatiable after years of bad sex. Of skipping straight to the good parts.

"Can we just leave it? It doesn't matter anymore," she hisses, sitting up.

Her clothes are on the other side of the room, her sweater (the colour of good red wine, of blood) and her peasant skirt (black as kohl, or the hollows of a skull with its eyes gorged). His doing.

She thinks about a time when it had all been so delightful. That, and even then, he had pressed her face firmly into the pillow, so she was just a headless body and less of a human, she had felt they were one being. She felt him through her in those moments.

She'd close her eyes and make the kinds of noises woman made in the porn she watched online and thought to herself: F**k, this feels so good. He's so big.

That every woman thought this about the man she was with at least once.

"Seriously?" he was yelling at her now in the bedroom voice he used when they were role playing.

She was the little c**t who couldn't get enough of his stupid huge dick. On her knees, in her mouth. His sausage fingers in her braids, pulling and she wouldn't think about how she was losing a months' worth of hair growth.

When he was with her, reality was outside of the locked bedroom door waiting for them to be done with what they were doing.

That it wasn't sex, not really. It was torture. Sexualized horror.

She pulled his Calvin Klein t-shirt over her head. "I need to use the toilet."

When she gets up, he grabs her wrist. His nails are sharper than hers. She thinks, how didn't I notice before? 

"You can't just leave me like this," he said. 

The clock on the wall was melting, hung upside down. Twelve o'clock was leaking down the wall to the hardwood floor.

She was aware of herself, of his nails digging crescent moons into her skin. Angry. For the first time, he felt the frustration she has nurtured for the past three years within herself, like a stillborn pregnancy.

The feeling of wanting to throw something breakable at the wall, his baby Monstera pot plant, the skull of a man. Spaghetti brains splintering across the room, it would be almost unreal.

She envies him the frustration now, almost jealous that he was experiencing the kind of sexual suppression that she now felt belonged to her. That she didn't want him to take from her. She didn't want to sympathize with him.

His shoulders were bone sharp underneath her naked thighs. She had her hands around his throat, knees pushing into his fat skull. F**k, I could kill him, she though. I could sit on his stupid f*****g face and suffocate him. The b*****d.

He pushes her off of him. To say he had only endured it because she had caught him by surprise. That he was capable of doing the same to her, sausage hands round her neck, and she wouldn't be capable of pushing him off.

"What the f**k is wrong with you?" said the man.

There were red spots on the pillow, the wall... The hardwood floor. Clumps like the cold flesh of watermelon. Like brains shot out of skull. She staggers backward, hand on her own throat. Frightened that she had actually gone through with it.

"Come back to bed," he whines, his naked back turned to her. 

She was standing in the middle of the room in his t-shirt. Groping at the nothingness. There was no blood. No watermelon brain clumps on the wall. The clock had been hung correctly the entire time.

It was any other night.