Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/W/WRONG-T.TXT

Text File | 1994-07-04 | 13.1 KB | 233 lines

The Wrong Turn

        Thursday afternoon I put my fist through the window.
        Right after I'd done it, I knew it was a mistake.  Not
breaking the window, but doing it at 6:00 right before Steve came home
from work.  When I heard him climbing up the front steps, I lost the
crucial momentum to pick up the broken glass and finish the job.  I
wasn't going to kill myself.  I'd just made a mess.  But then if I
really had wanted to die, I would have done it in the morning, right?
No one would have found me until it was too late.
        Steve walked into the living room, took one look at me
dripping blood all over the carpet, and dropped the groceries.
        "What do you think you're doing?"
        "Is this some sort of trick question?" I asked, and started to
cry.
        "Oh fuck.  Where are your car keys?"
        Since I wasn't being much help, Steve dug through my purse for
the keys, wrapped me in a towel, and threw me into the car.  I cried
most of the way to the hospital, cried about how I hated blood and
sharp things, and I hated being sewed up with needles.  Steve was
having trouble re-learning the clutch in my car, and he kept trying to
adjust the mirrors at stoplights.
        "Then you shouldn't have broken the window, OK?  Now shut up
and let me drive."
        The worse part of a hospital is not the emergency room.  The
ER people are usually real nice.  All the people running around asking
me about my insurance and how they were going to be paid really bother
me, though.  Someone shoved some Blue Cross/Blue Shield forms at me
and I had to sign them with my left hand.  Steve had told them it was
an accident.
        We got home some time after dark.  The groceries Steve had
dropped in the living room had melted or wilted, as appropriate.  He
chased me into bed while he cleaned up.  I was starting to wonder if I
should thank him for this or knock him over when I felt better.
        Steve came into my room and shoved a glass of tea under my
nose.  "Drink this."
        I took a sip and gagged unenthusiastically.  "What the fuck is
it?"
        "Catnip and valerian.  Now drink it.  You're out of Valium."
        "How do you know I'm out of Valium?  How did you even know I
had Valium in the first place?"
        "There's an empty prescription bottle labeled 'Valium' on your
dresser."
        "Oh."
        I drank the tea.  It still didn't taste good, but it made my
mouth tingle pleasantly.  The buzz set in.
        "So can we talk about this?" Steve asked.  "Is it about
Angel?"
        "Only sort of."
        "Why can't you date nice men for a change?"
        I flopped back on the bed.  "You mean, why can't I date men
who have short hair, who don't wear leather or cycle boots, who don't
pierce their ears, who I could show to my mother?  You mean vanilla
men?"
        "No.  I mean men who don't hurt you."
        "Right.  Steve, vanilla doesn't have much to do with nice.
There are an awful lot of sneaky little psychotic closet cases.  I
mean, I keep dating them.  You can't tell who's going to hurt you just
from their clothes.  And Angel doesn't have as much to do with this as
you think."
        Steve really doesn't understand.  After a while I quit trying
to explain, and he quit asking me questions.  I tried to sleep after
he left, but couldn't, even with the herbal medicinals in my blood.
        Want to know why I really did it?
        Angel and I had been dating for two months.  Or rather
sleeping together; somehow I never end up actually dating someone.
That's not his real name, but then you have to call yourself something
if you're named John and so is one of your housemates and three men at
work.
        The name fit, sort of.  Angel.  Dark Angel.  He had black hair
down below his shoulder blades and took good care of it so it fell in
soft feathers.  His eyes were very wide and blue.  He wore leather,
like all the rest of the rich college punks.  And he really was
vanilla.  Had had never tied anyone up, except at a party, as a joke.
He was also pretty amazing in bed, even for a vanilla.  He knew that I
was a top.  I'm not sure if that frightened him.
        So two weeks ago we went out to dinner then back to his place.
It was raining out.  We were soaked through our jackets.  Wet leather
is a guaranteed turn-on for both of us.  We started kissing each other
hard on the front porch, working our hands under each others' clothing
to hold and to scratch.
        I bit him through his jacket.  He shivered and dropped his
keys into a puddle.
        "What to know what this really means?" I asked.  "Want to know
what leather is?"
        We stumbled into the house, laughing and already half
undressed, catching stares from his housemates.
        "So show me," he said, once we were in his room.
        I pushed him back on the bed and started kissing him, very
lightly at first.  When he tried to kiss me back, I pinned his hands
up over his head.  I teased the corners of Angel's mouth, biting his
tongue, licking the hard line of his jaw.  When I got to his ears he
started to squirm.  I got a knee between his and pressed it against
his crotch.  My other hand was busy working its way up under his
shirt.  I could hear his breathing, sharp and ragged.  I pressed him
with my knee again.  He wasn't hard yet.  His nipples were small with
a little fringe of hair around them.  I brushed the hairs lightly and
felt the flesh wrinkle up tightly.  Angel was moaning softly, then
cried out as I simultaneously pinched his nipple and bit his ear lobe.
        Angel was stronger than I.  I couldn't have held him down if
he'd hadn't been letting me.  He stopped letting me.
        Then I was the one on my back and he was sitting on me, his
eyes wide and gleaming in the half-light of the street lamps, rubbing
his erection against me.
        "You like that, don't you?"  I asked.
        He tried to kiss me and I turned my head away.  Angle took me
by the hair, and when he couldn't force my mouth open, he bit my
throat.
        The sure way to seduce a vanilla to the dark side of the force
is to let him have top for a while.  Show him it's like an alcohol
flame, bright and beautiful, but not hot enough to burn.  Come on in,
see, the water's fine.  It was working perfectly.
        "You can't hurt me," I told Angel.  "Go ahead and play rough."
        He silenced me with his own tongue.  I bit him.  Angel
slapped.
        His lips brushed the burning place on my cheek.
        "Did I hurt you?"
        "No.  I said you couldn't hurt me.  Not this way, anyway."
        "Good," he said.
        Then in one smooth motion Angel had my shirt off over my head
and tangled my arms in it, then proceeded to play with my breasts.
Whenever I squirmed too much, he pinched my nipples, twisting them
hard enough that I was seeing stars.  I'd forgotten how much fun this
was.  I'd forgotten how much I liked to be topped for a change.
        After another brief struggle and several well-aimed slaps,
Angle had my jeans off too.
        You know, It's very hard to put up a convincing struggle when
someone is stroking you off.
        Angel helped, though.  He kept biting my nipples and ribs as I
squirmed, impaled on his fingers.  I got his hair in my teeth and
tried to pull it, then more or less lost control in the first surge of
orgasm.  I suppose if Angel had been more experienced at this, he
would have teased me more, drawn it out longer.  As it was I came,
grinding my clit against his thumb, and went limp while he kissed me.
        "Time out?" he asked, smiling.
        "What?  Oh yeah.  I won't move."
        It wasn't really fair to take advantage of the time it took
Angel to get a condom out of the drawer and put it on.  So I lay
there, limp and panting, until he had pulled his clothes off and
covered his erection with lubricated latex.
        "Ready?" he asked as he climbed back into bed.
        I bit him.
        Angel laughed and got between my legs again.  The first
penetration almost hurt.  His weight came down on top of me, pinning
me to the bed.  His hands stroked me as if I were some animal that
wouldn't hold still.  I remembered all the times that I had touched
someone else like this.  Angel would be good at things besides
vanilla.  I could tell.
        After a little while, our fucking became a contest between
Angel, who was trying not to come just yet, and myself, who was
twisting my hips in a frantic attempt to get him to spill over his
control.  This was a game that I had to win eventually, especially
since Angel couldn't keep all the rest of his body away from my hands
and teeth.  Each lick at his neck or claw mark at his back brought him
closer and closer.
        And then he was over the edge.  At once I quit fighting and
kissed him, swallowing up his soft cries.  My hands stroked him,
tickling his ribs and his armpits, while I clenched my vaginal muscles
down on him.
        He pulled out and collapsed at my side.  "Truce.  Would you
like a towel?"
        "Yes.  How was it?"
        He smiled.  "Fantastic."
        We kissed again, slower and more sweetly this time.
        It was then I told him that I loved him.
        He didn't say much after that.  Eventually he got out of bed
and pulled his jeans on and told me he was going downstairs to get
something to eat.
        I dressed and followed him down, but there didn't seem to be
much to say.  Usually when it's time to go, he holds me up at the
door, demanding one more kiss until all the cold has crept inside.  He
didn't this time.  I think my hands were shaking as I got into my car.
        Angel lives out in the 'burbs.  There's a really tricky
five-way intersection that you have to go through to get to the
expressway, and I took the wrong turn.  I tried to double back, but
got stuck in a one-way street that took me even farther away from
where I wanted to be.  I couldn't see the signs in the rain.
        It was after one a.m. and there were no lights around, no gas
stations, no policemen, nothing but an endless road of suburban
houses.  I turned around in a driveway, put the car in gear, and set
out in relentless search for the expressway.
        I hate being lost.  I was lost in Paris once.  It was pretty
awful since I don't even speak French.  In some ways this was worse
since there weren't any people I could ask for directions, and I had
been merely stupid to take the wrong turn, and after all the city was
so big that you'd think I could find it if I just kept throwing myself
at random streets long enough.  At times like this I remind myself
that I've been lost before and I always found my way home.  Why should
this time be any different?
        It's too bad I'm not more of an optimist.  I kept telling
myself that it may be true, but then I'd be lost again some time in
the future, so what was the point of getting home anyway?  Maybe I
should just stay out here and drive around until I ran out of gas.
        Some time around one thirty I met up with a sign for the
expressway and was shortly on my way home, starting from much further
west than I expected.  By then I was so tired that I almost missed my
exit.  There were no spaces left on my street either.  I had to park
two blocks away.  Steve had been mugged on this street a month ago.
The thought did not make me happy as I picked my way around the
newspapers and glass set out for the recycling truck that was due the
next morning.  This morning.  And then I was safe inside with the door
locked behind me.
        Angle didn't call me that week, so I started leaving messages
on his machine and with his housemates.  It didn't help.  At last I
caught him at work and got to ask him what was wrong.
        "We should talk," he said.
        "OK.  I can arrange that.  When do you want to talk?"
        "I don't know."
        "That makes it sort of difficult.  Will you call me?"
        "Yes."
        I waited a week and he never called.
        I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that he ran away
when I told him that I loved him.  I wanted to explain that I didn't
mean I was going to chain him to my bed, monopolize his personal life
and never let him sleep with anyone else, have his children, or all
those other trappings of commitment.  I just loved him.  I trusted him
enough to play rough with him like that.  He didn't have to love me
back, just accept it.  Was that so hard to understand?
        I guess it was.
        I was wrong when I said that he couldn't hurt me.  Or maybe I
had been right after all.  He couldn't hurt me just with blows and
pinches.  It took leaving me to really hurt.
        I still haven't heard back from Angel, and I think he just
doesn't want me anymore.  You know what else?  I'm still lost.  I
don't mean that I'll probably have another big disappointment like
Angel some time in my life.  I don't mean that I may be in my car
again and make a wrong turn and get home an hour late.  I mean that a
part of me is still stuck out there in the dark and the rain, confused
by one-way streets, lonely and unwanted.
        That's why I broke the window.
        Now do you understand?