Two kinds of hurt

The most exquisite hurt still shows with grey-green bruises on my shoulder blades and hips. Red finger trails down my spine have faded to buff pink but my ears remain tender from MB’s bites. Memories of the sweetest of physical pain from the first 24 hours with him are subsiding with the marks on my skin.

The hurt from the pit of uncertainty in my stomach and self pity from the last 72 hours remains.

We attacked each other within two minutes of stepping inside his front door. His lean limbs manipulated and pushed my frame into every permutation, hands pulled my hair, teeth bit my shoulders, nipples and lips. He drove into me more like a need than a desire, writhing, surging, driven by inner forces for our bodies to merge. I pushed back, not caring that my plans went out the window.

We launched at each other until sweat fell off us in sheets. Later I was in the kitchen on my knees with him in my mouth. After dinner I knelt at his feet and sucked while he tried to concentrate on a television show. We woke the next morning to more of everything until soreness overtook pleasure.

I don’t know what changed during the day but the crackle of electricity in the air turned to anxiety. He was avoiding me in the politest of ways. After the endless day I went into the study to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse — I found him messaging women on a dating web site, chatting to prospects for a threesome that night. His reasoning rang hollow at the already late hour. I got ready for bed and he said he’d be behind me.

Two hours after I dozed off, his side of the bed felt cold and flat. His usual earlybird habits were another contradiction. Stress spasmed through my abdominal wall. I stepped into the lounge and he had set up a bed on the floor, watching the end of a mindless Saturday night film. I think I dropped to my knees and asked why he was shutting me out. What has changed? What is wrong? Have I done something? Please, talk to me. He didn’t want to wake me up. I am here. I am warm. I am alive and want to be woken up. His face was kind but his words were empty. He asked if I was angry with him. I’m not angry. I’m confused. You were trawling for women on the web. You’re camped out here away from me. What’s wrong? He looked at me and said nothing. My night alone in bed lasted longer than the day I had waited out.

We crept around each other like enemies forced to share a prison cell, polite but guarded. Three days trying to avoid someone with courtesy feels like a month.

When we parted, he said, “I’m sorry” and I walked into the morning darkness with heavy bags and heart. It’s impossible for me to separate sex and emotions cleanly; I can’t show or accept intimacy without accompanying affection for someone. I feel more when things are good but hit the ground harder when they aren’t.

The plane shuddered in protest against heavy cloud cover as it ascended. I didn’t care if it crashed. Five minutes later we were above an endless field of marshmallow clouds and I wanted to stay up there forever, only thirty-nine thousand feet but a lifetime away from the confusion I had fled. After years of fearing flight, I understood the freedom of escaping the earth that we’re bound to by gravity.

The Drummer was sympathetic and soothing when he collected me, but rock hard beneath his pants when he placed my hand there. Conflicting emotions and physical responses from both of us. He craved release because of my absence and I needed punishment and cleansing.

He took me when we got home. Authoritatively, as if I were stolen property that had been returned to him. He marked me with his smell, returned his tongue to my mouth and stuffed my cunt with his manhood. After he filled my ears with insults about my sluttish ways, and our urgency had dissipated, he entered me from the side and masturbated me patiently and tenderly. I fell into his pattern and finished with a vibrator, purging quietly.

He asked to come on my vagina and arse. I sat before him and he spattered the bed coverings, my body, hair, pillow and bedhead; the residue of his abstinence when I was gone.

MB e-mailed an apology and explanation. It’s enough. We both hurt in complex and partly unexplainable ways — I hope my internal aches ease with the fading of my bruises.

This is harder than I imagined.

2 thoughts on “Two kinds of hurt

  1. This tugged at my heartstrings. While everyone’s experiences are different and unique, I have experienced a few similar times and know the pain that comes along with them.

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