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My forehead crinkles as I frown. What the hell? This is the kind of crazy stuff that dances through my head at the most inopportune times—job interviews, church services, exams, funerals, and, now, even this. Nothing is sacred.
These absurd, random thoughts just confirm what I have always suspected: I am insane. And, for whatever reason, this strikes me as funny. A shrieky, high-pitched giggle, which sounds almost deranged, escapes me before I can stop it. Now saucer-eyed, I cringe and bite my lip.
"What are you laughing at?" He heaves with a strained, slightly shocked voice.
He is lying on top of me, his body almost flaccid, using his forearms for support. And, with dogged determination, he pumps his hairy ass up and down, up and down, almost crushing me with his weight. It's hard for me to breathe, and yet all I can hear is breath—his breath—in my ear, and his laborious grunting. With each push of his pelvis, he grunts, "Unh ... Unh ... Unh," Is he fucking me or rowing a boat? I have my legs in the air, and my feet are balancing on his hairy ass. I find the whole thing very funny.
"It. Just. Feels. So. Good. Mmm." Each word is pressed out of me between humps, and I have to roll my eyes at the ceiling. I have long since stopped trying to move beneath him—not that I have any desire to do so. It wouldn't be possible anyway. So I just lie there, still, as I lie like a dog through my teeth.
"Oh. Baby. You're. So. Good," he responds in like as he pumps a few more times insummation. I'm not exactly sure if he's talking tome or himself, since clearly I've done nothing this whole time. Suddenly, he stops and pushes his hips hard into me, wagging his whole body from side to side with great effort. Then he drops the rest of his weight squarely on top of me so I can barely breathe at all.
"Ah," he puffs. His face is turned away from me so I can't see him, but I feel him, barely, releasing himself, spilling into me, before he finally stills. And I'm relieved it's over, and glad too, that at least one of us got something out of it. He's done.
Abruptly, he pulls out of me and rolls over to my side, squeezing the last bit of precious oxygen from my body as he goes. He drops his head heavily on the bed, spent, and rests his hand on his head, his elbow in the air. At last, I can breathe! He's quiet for a minute, and I watch his mighty chest rise and fall as he catches his breath. Then he rakes his large hand lazily over his handsome face, pushes it across his manly chest, past his flat, rippling stomach, and down his hairy treasure trail where he removes the juicy condom from his tiny, little penis. He drops it absently on the floor beside him, and I make a mental note not to walk on that side of the bed.
The world's first vibrator weighed forty pounds and was invented by a British doctor who used it to treat female hysteria patients.
In other words, the kinky bastard was "double-clicking the mouse," so to speak, on a lot of neglected housewives, having them orgasm in his office while he called it stress relief. I'm sure he was doing the five-knuckle shuffle himself the whole time too! I wonder how many poor husbands sat mindlessly in the waiting room while their wives were in the back getting their, ahem, stress treatments from the good doctor.
Smiling, entertained by my thoughts, I glance innocently in his direction. To my horror, he's looking back at me. And he's grinning! Good grief! He thinks I'm smiling at him! At the sex! I feel nauseated.
"Yeah, that was good," he says with a smirk. Seriously? Obviously very pleased with himself, he rolls toward me and softly rubs my side with his finger. I note his long nails, and I am more repulsed than ever. I hate a man with long nails.
"Did you come?" he asks with a serious face.
In what feels like slow motion, my mouth droops open, and I think it may be resting on my chest. I stare blankly in general disbelief. Blink. My eyes dart around the darkening room, nervously searching for a reasonable response. I grasp what seems to be a fair answer. "Er ... yes. Of course I did. At least twice."
He smirks again, rolls to his back, and—placing his hands behind his head—lets out a mighty sigh. He is so proud.
Truth is, I've had sex three times now, and I'm not the least bit impressed with it. I've never felt anything even remotely similar to an orgasm. Maybe it's broken? Instead, I feel totally cheated, shortchanged, and sexually inept. It's just not worth the effort, or the resulting self-doubt. I mean, I'm already insane. I don't need to pile on all these feelings of inadequacy too. Besides, this is strike three, and I am done.
Poor Scott. I think about my unwitting victim here. Medium build, blond, a clean, All-American look—the girls in the office go from normal to horndog slutty whenever he makes a delivery. Even Michael swooned when Scott showed up for happy hour one evening after work. And, while Scott has been very persistent, I think Michael has bugged me more about this date than Scott has. I have to agree that Scott's easy on the eyes, but he's just not my type. To be fair, though, I'm not really sure I have a type.
Michael is the closest thing to a boyfriend I've ever had, but even I have to admit that's pathetic. He did, however, take on the awesome responsibility of selecting the right deflowerer for me a few years ago. He said deflowering was a distinguished honor, and I needed someone with character, someone with experience, and, most importantly, someone with a small dick. Well, he got it wrong then—and his batting average hasn't improved any since. Perhaps he'll believe me now when I say that the size of a man's hands is not proportional to anything else on his body. I don't know how that rumor got started, but it's downright dangerous—not to mention inaccurate. At least he can get off my back about Scott now.
Here goes nothing. I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Thankfully, I am still wearing my bra. Leaning over with my head between my knees, I search frantically for my clothes in the dark. I manage to find my shirt and my panties in good time.
I say as nonchalantly as I can, "That was nice. Thanks!" But, before I can pull my shirt on, he snakes across the bed toward me like a hungry predator. I quail at the touch of his hand on my naked back. Not the nails, please!
"Baby! Where are you going?"
I cannot stand it any longer. I have to go. I have to get out of here before he tries to cuddle. I stand immediately and grip my panties between my clenched teeth. Quickly tugging my shirt over my head, I grab the little panties once again and hop around on one leg as I swipe at my foot with them. I finally lasso them on, catching first my right foot before pursuing the other. I slide them up with one big wiggle of my hips.
Now that my underwear is secure, I concoct a plausible story. "I have to work," I lie again, and it scares me that I'm getting pretty good at it. Where are my pants?
I graze my jeans with my foot, swiftly kicking them in the air, where I snag them with one hand. After giving them a walloping shake, I hop around some more, in circles this time, jiggling them on one long leg at a time. When I'm done, I note that I'm standing on the other side of the room. Where the hell are my socks?
It's really dark in the room now, and I can hardly see a thing—much less my little ankle socks. I decide to leave them, and my shoes too. I can't leave my shoes! I can tell his beady little predator eyes are watching me from the side of his bed as I stumble around, bent over, desperately fanning the floor with my hands for footwear. Ah! Finally! I pick up my shoes. Screw the socks!
"Rae? When will I see you again?" he says in a weird, pouty voice.
I freeze with a deer-in-headlights look. There it is! I knew it was coming. An overwhelming urge to scream hits me like a hammer, and I am riveted to the floor. I stifle it with some effort and summon an innocent response.
"Well, Monday, I'm sure." Not a lie, at least.
I fold myself over, and with two more little hops, my shoes are on. "Don't get up!" I say with mock concern. "I can let myself out." This is really awkward.
He's puzzled, I can tell, but to his credit, he doesn't say a word. And, since I can't bring myself to hug him good-bye—or let him touch me again—I smack a loud, wet kiss in the direction of the bed. I shout, "I'll see ya Monday!" as I make my getaway.
Within seconds, I'm running out the front door, jaunting down the drive, and climbing anxiously into my SUV. I finally relax once I've shut the door and hit the lock. I take a few deep, cleansing breaths to clear my head, and I yank down the visor to examine the damage. Oh, good! To my surprise, my makeup is still perfectly applied—even the glosson my lips! But then I remember there wasn't a lot of foreplay leading up to the disappointing finale, and I frown. Oh no! My hair hasn't been as lucky, and I'm left with a "jackerwhad doo," as I call it. I quickly drag my fingers through my hair, give my head a little shake, and pat it a few times for good measure. Oh well! I start the engine, click on my seatbelt, and roll the truck into reverse.
I feel better as I slap on the radio and drive back down the short driveway toward the open road. Vintage Zeppelin pipes loudly through the speakers, and I sing with them. Fly high, Freebird!
How the hell do I know this? My mind drifts as I speed toward home—well, Michael's home, where I have lived for the past six years. His home, bought for him by his doting parents who could, no doubt, easily afford it.
Smaller than the other homes in the lazy, historical district of Morristown, it drips with charm. It sits on a small lot nestled amid the old manors in the district. It's quaint; an elegant, antique-like porch wraps around the entire house, setting off the white, wooden shutters that we put up last year. A tall weeping willow stands guard in the corner of the yard, keeping the edge of the sidewalk swept with its long-reaching branches. I love this house, and I love Michael for sharing it with me.
As I get closer to home, I steel myself for the inquisition that I know is waiting for me. I really don't want to discuss Scott tonight—or any night, for that matter. We should simply file this away under Mistakes I Won't Make Again and move on.
The radio crackles with Midnight Moaning Mona's deep, seductive voice as she takes calls from a few lonely, young men who, for reasons I can only imagine, appear to be dateless at home. Mona is plastered on billboards and bus stops all over town. Tall, lean, and busty, the platinum blonde looks like she fell from a centerfold with her shapely legs and her long, elegant neck that's delicately tattooed with a permanent choker. Her hazel eyes look too big for her small, pale face, but she's gorgeous. I hate her. Michael, on the other hand, loves her.
It's beginning to rain. Soft, delicate drops sprinkle the windshield as I coast to a stop at a red light on the edge of town where Scott lives. I slap on the wipers and relax my head against my hand, propping my arm on the car door. Glancing at the clock on my radio, I note it's 1:31 and 69 degrees outside. I twirl my hair and stare dreamily out the window as Ozzy croons about a crazy train, courtesy of Mona. And I smile at the appropriateness.
Gazing out my window, I see a chain of cute, little shops that line the sidewalk across the street. There's a long string of cars parked against the curb in front of them. Nice cars. Most of the shops are dark, and the streets are totally deserted except for a couple of men who are busy stuffing garbage into the trunk of one of the cars. It seems odd, when suddenly something strikes me, and my face lights up with excitement as I gawk.
That's a Jag they're stuffing garbage into! A Jaguar XF. Sleek and silver, and totally hot. My dream car. Keep dreaming. I drove one once when I had to pick up my boss from the airport. He was a total jackass, but his car was freaking hot!
Absently, I wonder why the hell anyone would haul trash in a car like that, when one of the men suddenly looks up, and we make eye contact. I turn my head quickly, embarrassed that I've been caught staring, but I forget about him almost immediately and return my thoughts to more pressing matters. Should I even tell Michael about Scott?
Engrossed in the scattered musings of a maniac, I notice the light has already turned green, and now it's turning red again. I shake my head disapprovingly at myself as I ease on the gas and glance nervously in my rearview mirror. I'm surprised that no one has honked at me, but there's no one there, and I smile at my paranoia. Insane people do that, I guess.
The rain has stopped, and I'm on along, straight stretch of highway. I'm tired and ready—no, anxious—for this day to be over, anxious to shower away all the Scott stank that is clinging to me, and anxious to curl up in my comfy bed with my new duvet, a glass of wine, and a good book. I drop my foot hard against the gas pedal, and I watch the painted lines of the road melt into one long, white stream blurring past me like a movie on fast forward. I'm practically flying, and the thought of a speeding ticket flits briefly through my head.
I decide I've lied enough for one week. I'll tell Michael the truth about my encounter with Scott and just suffer through the humiliation of admitting one more thing I have failed at. He may be a sex god, but goddess, I am not. I'd rather read a good book.
Irritating as he may be, Michael is my best friend. He is actually cute, funny, witty, and very charming. He's also a full-fledged, peter-puffing, gold-star, butt pirate. Mardi Gras gay. Queer as a three-dollar bill, but I love him in spite of it. Maybe I love him because of it? Hmm? I screw my eyebrows and tug at my bottom lip as I deliberate this concept. No matter, he saved me, and I owe him everything for it. He rescued me from them and from myself, helping me find a way to live a somewhat-normal life, which is something no doctor ever did.
He tells me all the time that I'm the oldest twenty-four-year-old he knows, and I suspect he's right. I've been gainfully employed since I was sixteen, determined to make my own success despite my fucked-up family. Plus, the money came in handy whenever I wanted to eat.
My abusive, bat-shit father and my mother, who was drunk more often than not, made my adolescence a living hell. And then there's my brother, Brian, who deserted me, leaving me alone with those lunatics when I was only seven. He was the closest thing to an ally I had growing up, and I only saw him once after that, when I was around fourteen.
A man came to our door one day—Brian's attorney, I assume. I never saw him, but I could hear him telling Twyla the Lush that Brian was going on trial for boosting cars, or something. He mistakenly thought my parents might give a shit, but we hadn't even seen Brian for almost seven years by then. I missed him a lot. So I skipped school the next day, and I walked the nine miles to the courthouse to listen to the trial. Only it wasn't really a trial. It was just him, standing defiantly in front of a judge, and the judge telling him he would spend the next five to seven years in a federal penitentiary. Apparently, his lawyer forgot to tell Twyla that he boosted the car from someone at gunpoint.
When it was time for him to go, I said nothing. I just stood there, hot tears on my cheeks, watching the only hope for my salvation being led away. As the guard walked him past me, he looked at me like I was a baby bird he'd knocked out of a nest or something.
"Take it easy, kid. None of this shit matters anyway," he said. He didn't cry, but I saw a glimmer of sadness and despair in his otherwise-hardened eyes, and I know it was for me.
Excerpted from Insanity Plea by DM. L. CARTER Copyright © 2012 by Dm. L. Carter. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Posted November 17, 2012
Posted December 16, 2012
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