u/sloanehydra

literally knock me the fuck out knock me the fuck out knock me the fuck outttttt

She’s at the wheel again, that girl in the trailer park with her shorts around one ankle. I split in half that night and I’ve been collecting names since. My first alter ego was Maria. “Cut up, Maria," Dad would sing, "show me some of them Spanish dances,” but in my head the word flamenco just conjured the plastic pink flamingos in his neighbor’s yard. So I’d wiggle my body in a twangy bluegrass way instead, or imitate the video vixens on tv.

I get so lonesome for a soul doppelgänger. A bitch who gets it without speaking. We are legion, I know, wrenched apart and twisted into new shapes by fathers and uncles and mothers and aunts and siblings and weirdos encountered along our damned paths. But so rare to find one in the wild.

In the highways, in the hedges, I’ll be somewhere a’looking for you. 

Oh, I don’t want to talk about it. Slut, show me your tits. Come suck Daddy. Crawl to him on your knees. Good whore. I don’t want to be Maria, with her clumsy dancing, or that girl sobbing on the yellowed linoleum. I’m grown now. I know what my body is for, and I want a girl who knows her purpose already because my mind is cacophonous filth but my soul is golden, it’s light as a feather, and I don’t want to corrupt a precious thing. 

We can play pretend, though, if it's what your body needs. And if your psyche needs an alter, you can be Amber, after a girl who lived down the street. We’ll play boyfriend and girlfriend, and you know which one I’ll be. In the car, cinder blocks for wheels, I’ll drive us to the movies.

You’ll know more than you should on your daddy’s waterbed. Hear the applause? Jerry Springer and all his buffoons are so happy you’re practicing.

Honey you squirm so cute when my tongue’s deep in your Little Debbie cake. Hold your legs wiiiiide open now, sweetie. Here, I’ll help. Baby you take it so good for the men paying me. 

Namaste, bitch, let’s get that cum.

That’s what he’d said to me the night before, not fifteen minutes after embracing in the lobby of the hotel where he was meeting me in Brooklyn. Some laughter, some kissing, some unbuttoning. His pants, my blouse, his mouth on my tits, “God, you’re just popping out of this,” this being my bra, and then my tights and panties were off and he was shoving his fingers inside of me, not one or two, not gently, not like other times in other New York hotels, but what felt like all of them, twisting and pushing hard. 

The realization that he’s likely read what I wrote about my ex-husband trying to fist me before proposing and wants to enact that same abuse on my body hits me and I’m gasping and floating elsewhere. Not to way back then, not yet, but to a planet that exists outside of our time but encompasses all of mine: the planet of betrayal. 

“I hear your voice and all your little noises and gasps and I’m just instantly rock hard,” he says. “I know it only feels good for you if it hurts.” He twists his fingers and shoves hard one more time to get them deeper, then flips me onto my stomach and pushes his thick, heavy, perfect cock into my dripping cunt.

It’s not the first time he’s shocked me into this faraway place. The first time, we were practically strangers. He was above me, pushing his cock into my mouth. But it’s so thick. Too big for my palate. Just like - no, no. I can’t say it. 

“It’s too big. It won’t fit” - the first words he heard from me, when I was still just a disembodied voice in his ear, regressed and crying out to my original abuser’s ghost. By some fucked kismet he has me beneath him now, shrinking and protesting at close range.

I’m trying. Just like. Open wide. Wider. Just like. He pulls it out. Admonishes. Warning in his eyes. His tone. “Watch your-”

I was trying I don’t want to try anymore. Maybe we can do something else? His eyes. Disappointment? Anger? Real or play? I don’t know him well enough to tell. I don’t want to do this anymore. Just like.

I start to thrash. I can sense the midday light from the hotel window from behind my eyelids. The shame and dread snaking up my body. I can’t take it so I thrash. And then I black out for a little bit. I go to the other planet. 

When I return, I open my eyes slowly to look at him and he’s watching me. There’s something so alive in his eyes. How do I describe it? Almost thrilled. Like he’s holding his breath so as to not disturb what’s happening to me. 

But that was almost two years ago. Now, he knows me better than before. Every crumb of my past I give, I give to him - whispered in secret, or broadcast in the public square of internet perverts. All of it is his to use against me.

“Poor baby.” That’s what he says when I go to pieces on his cock. And: “There’s nothing like fucking this abused little pussy.” And: “I need it.”

I need it, too. Yeah, the pain, but more than that I need his need crashing into my own. The otherworld/underworld that we create when he’s inside of me. A place so far outside of time that I can slip around in my own, gossamer girl, until it thickens around me. Dark-webbed time, I am swathed in your silk and squirming.

Later I ask if he thinks he wants to get married someday.

He pauses.

“I don’t mean to me,” I clarify. “This isn’t a loaded question.”

He tells me things that are not mine to air in the public forum of internet perverts, but what I say next is. I lean in and whisper into his ear, “Someday you’ll marry a very nice girl, but my voice will still be in your head.”

He laughs, a low rumble that turns into a groan. He’s hard again, against my thigh, in my hand, telling me he’ll jerk off to my voice forever, the pictures and videos I send him, that he’ll meet me in hotels during business trips to get the chance to fuck his abused little girl, he can’t help it. He needs it. 

Fuck a wedding. No marriage compares to a hard cock aching to do brutal and loving things to me in secret - I would know. 

“God, you’re so fucking fucked up,” he laughs, grabbing a fistful of my hair and shoving my face into the pillow. He ruts inside me. “There’s no fixing you.” 

I cry and cum on his cock. My abused pussy weeps harder than I do, drenching my thighs.

In the morning, our last morning together, I’ll lick him how I was first taught and I’ll tell him this. Just like that. He furrows his brow and nods his head in encouragement. Poor baby.

This time, with practice and angles, he’s able to fuck my throat. I come up for air but he clutches my hair and pushes me down on it again, deep, making me choke on the flood of his cum. Just like. Just like my dad.

They’re not to blame. Nothing too egregious done. Well, some things, but that was last year. This year, I’m just proving a point to myself, I guess, though it’s one I already knew. I’m damaged goods. I’m the common denominator. This time of year. Me and July and our hungry, aching hole. On and on. Yawn.

I have darker punchlines if you wanna hear

The title and photos are for men. It’s the truth, but the even more pathetic truth is that the other morning, sitting in my car before work, a proposal video on TikTok nearly made me cry.

I was never a girl who longed for a ring. There was one relationship where I fixated on the idea of getting married because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, and he was not my husband. But overall, I’ve understood that this particular life trajectory would look different for me, if it happened at all.

Whatever little girl fantasies I might have had were killed off by what the most important man in my life did to me when I was still a child. So nothing in me rose up in protest when my ex-husband proposed the way he did. What did I have to compare it to?

The other morning, though, I compared it to the video on my fyp. Not even an extravagant proposal - just thoughtful and planned and intentional. Loving.

“I guess I’m feeling like damn, kinda crazy that my experience of being proposed to was after abuse and degradation,” I texted a friend. “And like a dog I lapped it up.”

Woof.