You know that feeling you get in the deepest part of your stomach when you know you're doing something wrong? That angst, that chill of morbidity, the sound of your mother's voice telling you that hell looms before you if you continue along this wretched path. When you've got a bill that's due and you know you have to have x amount of dollars to pay it, and yet, you call in sick just so you can sleep a few extra hours, knowing that your check is going to be short and you could have gone in, you were just tired because you stayed up all night talking to some asshole on Yahoo messenger who said his name was Bob and he had a ten inch penis. You know that bill is not going to get paid, and it's important, but you somehow justify putting it off, and your stomach is the only part of your body that seems to be bothered by your stupidity.
When his lips touched mine, I could feel the flames of hell lapping at my heels, while in that same moment an almost pungent whiff of ecstasy swept over me. Unbridled passion with an atmosphere of the forbidden, standing here in Sweet Home, on this rickety porch, outside of the oldest standing trailer in recorded history, clutched in the arms of ambrosia for the ego.
Ok, now that I've swept you into the moment, let me take you to the next, "How to Get from Point A to Point B Without Feeling Like a Tramp, by Shannon.
You can't.
When you're raised protestant Christian, there is no way to flagrantly and unashamedly dismiss the ethics of your youth and not feel the pang of merciless anguish that will inevitably creep up behind you and poke you in the butt with a sharp stick. No, sir. You can pretend you feel nothing, but it'll get you. Sit still long enough and think about it, toss and turn in the bed at night wishing you could undo the last 24 hours of your life sometime, any of those occasions are the type of shit I'm talking about.
His hands were so strong, and his arms so unforgiving, he caressed my back, sliding one hand up, behind my head, weaving his fingers in my hair and gently pulling me closer, kissing me deeper and more passionately with every breath. The other hand moved downward, holding one ass cheek firmly, and pulling me to him, grinding himself against me.
There are moments in your life that you wish you could take back.
That wasn't one of them.
He wanted me, at least physically, and he was gorgeous. No matter what prince charming, the husband, had told me, I was still very beautiful and still quite desirable, even to boys from the trailer park gang.
When it felt that his tongue had actually become one with the inside of my mouth and that part of him had entered me through both of our clothing, I emitted a most mouse-like squeak, to which he responded immediately with a moan, and I pushed away, collecting what was left of my feminine dignity (the part that wasn't soiling my clothing at the moment) and walked off the porch.
He was clearly as exasperated as I was by my decision, but what other choice could there be? I had a husband, though low and trashy he was, at home. There was a clash of idealistic standards going on in my head, heart and soul - and my body was just sitting on the sidelines eating popcorn and waiting for the three of them to be too occupied to notice that it had wandered back up onto the porch, slid into the living room, down the narrow corridor, and through the bedroom door, the first door on the right, the room that was no bigger than a broom closet, and was piled up on the mattress with this stunning, magnificent example of a man.
There was no candlelit dinner, no warm bath and no foot massage. We didn't take the perfunctory shower together before or afterward, we just fell madly into each other's embrace, fueled by little more than an innate desire.
What makes people hunger for each other? Have you ever thought of that? Yes, I'm disturbing this poignant tale of sexual frustration to ask a question. Why. Why do I look at three men of the same age, relatively the same stature, but entirely different faces, and one of those three will be completely attractive, while the other two are total Barneys? Tiny was one of those men who by his very nature was incapable of being unattractive.
Ok, on with the story. I don't want to go into too many details because I think there are teen-agers reading this smut, so I'm going to leave it at this, I sinned. I sinned several times in a row that night, and though I did pray for forgiveness all the way home, I did return.
Upon arrival back at my domicile, which at this point was more a prison than a home, I find that my instincts were correct about the ever faithful Mister husband of mine, and he was indeed completely inebriated and falling about the house like a tranquilized water buffalo. Yes, sir, boys and girls. It was 7 a.m. and this bastard was either a) drunk already or b) still drunk from the night before. He reeked of whiskey and bong resin and it was all I could do to grab a few things and head back for the door. We had to make it back to the apartment to fetch my sister's medicine. She had been ill, you see, and I promised to look after her.
Everything that had happened the night before must have been written all over my face, neck, chest, arms, dripping from my ears, tangled up in my hair and a neon sign orbiting my head. He was livid, clearly, and there was little I could do about that. I meant to do what I did, at least part of me, and though I had no intention at that moment of ever repeating the night before, he changed my mind quickly.
He searched for something with which to pummel me as I was searching for something in the house. I cannot to this day remember what was so important that I had to keep looking, but I was in the bedroom looking when he emerged with his "stick". This was something akin to a cane and he had intended on beating me with it. My candor wasn't helping anything, naturally, as I coasted past him with nearly a guffaw at his stupidity and made my way to the front door.
As I neared the car where my sister sat waiting, I heard her scream "look out" and I turned to see that he had raised this stick over my head and was about to bring it crashing down on me. Our eyes met and sparks flew, the stick came down hard on my shoulder and I grabbed it with both hands and jerked it away from him.
"I was going to leave this house, mother fucker, and let you sober up since it's obvious that a warm welcome is the last thing I could have figured on, but since you insist on making this thing physical, let's dance!" I tried for the sake of the neighbors to keep my voice low, and my tones stern but not insanely loud.
I hefted the "stick" above my head and made for his face with it and he ran back into the house. I gave chase, only I threw the stick on top of the house before I went in.
As we turned the corner into the bedroom, he realized that I no longer had the stick and turned to confront me. He balled up his fist and hit me in the side of my head so hard that my earring fell out. That was the last fun thing he did that day.
First I grabbed him by the throat with my left hand and slammed him on the bed. I made the critical movie bad guy boo boo and talked too long, allowing him time to right himself, before swinging my right fist down - aiming for the bridge of his nose, and he brought his left arm up to block his face. I did manage to break his arm before I left the house that day, and I did manage to get over whatever psychosis I had that kept me married to him for this long.
When we left there we went straight to the apartment for me to collect myself, shower, and rethink this whole situation. A day before I had been unhappily married and unemployed, but still had a home and transportation and my child to think about. Now what? While I'm repairing my life, what is to happen of my child? What is to become of my life?
Then mother decided to move.
Tune in next time for the exciting adventures of Shannon's early twenties, LOL.
I need at least one comment to continue.
Previews: Parties, more Tiny, moving, more Tiny, the new job, more Tiny, moving again, more Tiny - and then Tony!!!
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