Bad Romance
An anthology of dysfunctional desire
Edited by Robin Wolfe
A Freaky Fountain Press anthology
Published by Freaky Fountain Press at Smashwords.
Bad Romance is copyright 2011 by Freaky Fountain Press. All rights reserved.
Artwork on the cover, “Love Contorted”, is copyright 2011 by Kristina Thalin.
Registered with Library and Archives Canada. ISBN 978-0-9866812-1-9
Jenny Logo is a trademark of Freaky Fountain Press.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
Dedication
This book is for our authors, who have added their talent and enthusiasm to our vision and guidance. We couldn’t have done it without you, and we thank you for being your wonderful selves.
Acknowledgments
Any book, whether it’s a novel or an anthology or anything else, requires the assistance of many people before it reaches publication. In this case, I want to thank the following:
My partner Chris, who puts up with so much so I can achieve my dreams;
My parents, who may likely never read this, but I’m thanking them all the same because they always supported my writing, from the first short story I wrote at age six, on up to the current time;
Heidi L., Derek M., and Kathy R., for always being both my partners in crime, and my safe shores;
Laura I., for being my first and most ardent supporter when I became a writer, and for being a dear friend;
Steph Q., Amanda C. and Amanda H., Dina D., Alexis Y., Angela W., Esperanza T., Kim B., Bekah, and others (who know who they are, but may not want to be mentioned here by name), who were and are my “crit crew”, reading my works and encouraging me to keep going;
Lady Gaga, for being my muse for this anthology, and for producing music that was often the soundtrack for the seemingly-endless hours of editing;
And, last but certainly not least, Catherine: FFP co-founder, co-editor, and co-conspirator in many writerly shenanigans.
A note about trigger warnings
Being “triggered” is when someone has experienced psychological trauma in the past, and as a result, experiences psychological distress in the current time when they read, see, or hear about something similar to their experience. A “trigger” is something that causes a particular person to re-experience some of the emotions or sensations of their past trauma.
Due to the nature of Freaky Fountain content, our publications may have a higher risk of triggering people. As we don’t wish to cause our readers distress, we have provided a “trigger warning” list at the back of the book (check the Table of Contents for the exact page number). If you have triggers, you can scan the Trigger Warning list to see which stories you may want to avoid.
(Note that triggers are different from “squicks”; squicks may leave people feeling disgusted or mildly disturbed, but they are not psychologically traumatizing. Common squicks might be necrophilia, bestiality, or sex play involving unusual bodily fluids. We do not warn for squicks.)
The triggers we warn for are: domestic violence, child abuse, incest (consensual), incest (non-consensual), rape or dubious consent, drug and alcohol use, body issues/eating disorders, self-injury, cutting, extreme violence, and some other common triggers.
Though we do our best to make sure that the Trigger Warning list is as complete and as detailed as possible, triggers may sometimes slip through the cracks, and while the Trigger Warning list is a helpful tool for helping you decide which stories you’d like to read, ultimately the decision to read some or all of our material is your own. Any psychological or other consequences thereof are your own responsibility.
1 Dedication and acknowledgment
6 Ink
7 Favorite
8 Coma
10 Maleficent
11 The Affair
12 Blood Lust
13 Her Heart Is A Screen Door, Too
15 On The Quiet
Introduction
Freaky Fountain Press was born in early 2010 out of the frequent conversations Catherine and I would have, despairing over the difficulty in finding quality erotica that falls far outside of the mainstream. We're both writers as well, purveyors of the freaky, and we also commiserated over how hard it is for authors to find markets for unusual erotica. Someone needs to start publishing the really freaky stuff, we'd often say.
A couple of years later, we decided that we may as well be that someone.
After nearly eighteen months of work, what was an idea, a dream, and an ambition has been wrought by sheer force of will into something real. You're holding one of the first Freaky Fountain anthologies in your hands.
For our first anthologies, we chose themes dear to our hearts. For Catherine’s This Is The Way The World Ends, she indulged her love for apocalyptic scenarios; for Bad Romance, I succumbed to my fascination with dysfunctional relationships. I never tire of exploring dysfunction, of dissecting the ways that two or more people can bring out the worst in each other. Adding elements of lust and love to a dysfunctional relationships ratchets up the intensity; people continue to pull each other down, and yet they can't seem to break away...and oftentimes they don't want to break away. During the months we spent preparing for and then working on this anthology, songs like Eminem feat Rihanna’s “Love The Way You Lie” and Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” dominated the airwaves. The former covers the dynamics of abuse; the latter explores the overwhelming desire for self-destruction. Were they bits of erotic fiction rather than songs, both would be perfect fits in this anthology.
There are thirteen stories in this collection. They range from serious to farcical, and feature both straight and queer pairings. What unites them all are their distinct literary voices, and how each explores - in their own way - a bad romance.
Enjoy Bad Romance, and stay freaky.
-Robin Wolfe
Bleeding Red
Red's paintings are all of sex and violence these days. There are masticated bodies and the gleaming white of bones and cum, the pieces scarred with thick black lines and scarlet ink. I take them in with a shudder, the long lines of my nails digging hard against my flesh, and I can almost taste him on the canvas.
Once, I almost lick the white pine frame.
Sticking to the back of the gallery, I laugh with my friends and pretend to be smart enough to take apart the things Red writes in ink and flame, but I know that there are thoughts inside the images that I will never understand. Ignoring the way he moves around the room, talking and flirting with all the pretty girls, I numb the heavy feeling of his eyes on my spine with another glass of vodka and lime.
The alcohol is clear and the limes are green. But everything else is a fog.
When the sight of shattered skulls and glossy paint becomes too much, I take another drink and stumble out the door. "I'll be right back," I tell my friends, but the looks in their eyes make it clear that they don't believe me.
I don't believe me either.
Outside, the night is cool and wet and everything the gallery is not. I feel the air against my cheeks and lean my head against the brick, staring in at warmth and at the place where, a year ago, my body would have been. For a minute, as I flick my thumb against the wheel of my lighter, I think the spark illuminates my features on one of the paintings inside.
A year ago, they would all have looked like me.
I cup the flame and bring its heat up to my mouth, breathing deeply with my lips around the filter. The smoke tastes like dying and everything I am looking for these days.
Red always hated it when I smoked.
I wonder if he'd hate it still.
I put out the stub of my cigarette on the thick sole of my boot and light another, blowing big, grey clouds against the darkness. They float in little tendrils around me, and I watch them in a haze, the roughness of the wall becoming harsh against my skin as I lean into it and sag. I can see white flesh through the hole the brick is making in my tights, the black tulle beneath my skirt lifting up.
Rough and hard against my thigh, the movement feels like Red's hot hands. Especially when it begins to draw blood.
"That smoke makes you taste like shit, you know."
The heat against my spine is unmistakable, a feel of fingertips gripping hard at my hip, and I wince. My eyes close.
"It's not like you want to taste me anyway," I mumble.
It feels like I am speaking to a ghost.
Sometimes, I wish I was.
"Give me that." A hand jerks hard at mine, and my cigarette is falling, my body ripped forcibly from the brick before my back is pushed up against it. Then there is something cool near my cheek, urging away the sting.
Cold glass presses against my lips and I try to shake my head, but I can't. My neck is held too tightly in his grip.
"Get the fuck away from me," I sputter, and I am pushing, shoving hard at a chest that will not be moved.
No matter how hard I tried, it never, ever would.
"Cut the shit, Spyder," he rasps. "Drink."
My eyes snap open as my lips accept a freezing burn. I know it is only alcohol, but with my tongue, I taste acid and salt and numb. With my eyes, I see only Red.
Immobilized against a wall, I let him tilt the glass, and my mouth accepts it all. Gulping down even the ice, I feel the chill pass through my throat and slice its way through the fog. When I am done and it is gone, he grins, his eyes darkening when I slide my tongue around the rim.
There's the sound of glass on pavement, the ground littered with tiny shards. I can still see them on the back of my eyelids as they close, and then instead of ice, there's heat. Groaning into a kiss I know will only hurt me, I stare into blackness and taste hot skin. I feel tongue and teeth, and I bite down on his bottom lip, exalting at the tang of copper salt.
Bleeding, Red laughs, and I feel the warmth of it in my lungs. He presses against me more deeply and paints his mouth along my jaw. With his cock rubbing thick and hard against my hip, he exhales in my ear, "See? You taste much better now."
I draw in a ragged breath and hate the way my hands curl around his hips. "I taste like blood and alcohol."
"Exactly," he murmurs, biting down. "Though both those things taste better when they're dripping from your cunt."
Memories wash over me of his body inside of mine in every possible way, and I shudder, leaning into a touch I know I should run from. For almost a year now, I've been running. But there's something so deliciously painful about letting him hold me still.
Moments disappear in a blur of touch, my thighs growing slick with want as he pushes and probes. His thumb and his tongue each take their turn inside my mouth, and with a sickening sense of giving in, I suck them both. I know that I will suck on whatever he wants, starving for a taste.
Even if I know it tastes like poison.
Finally, his breath is hot against my neck again, his hand on my wrist and pushing my palm against him. "Come with me."
I have heard those words before.
Pulsing hotly around him, I've obeyed.
And I hate myself just a little more as I nod and give in once again.
I lose both the scrape of the brick and his stubble as he pulls my body away. There's nothing but his arm around my waist to hold me up as the sidewalk squares evaporate before us. We're moving away from the gallery and into that night, and I want to ask him so many things. So many times I begin to taunt, wanting to stab at him as deeply as he does me, but each question dies stillborn on my tongue.
I want to ask about the show he is leaving behind -- about the paintings and the people. His precious dealer and his pretty, pretty fucks. There are so many girls who are sticky and wet for his art and for his sneer, and I want to make him tell me why he's hurting me instead of them.
But I know.
None of the others will let him do to them what I will.
None of the others will let him break them.
Pushing open the door to his studio, I am assaulted by the stinging scent of turpentine and bleach. It almost makes me retch, it's a scent I know so well. Without letting go of me, Red reaches up to turn on a single spotlight, a warm glow filling crevices even though everything is cold. I let my gaze move around, catching three easels and countless canvasses and palettes, brushes and knives and tubes of paint. I remember the feeling of the oils as he spread them slickly across my body, his hands making art of the ugliest of skin.
But there's still no way to paint beauty within.
I close my eyes against everything, only to feel a thumb at the hinge of my jaw, his fingers curling hard around my neck. "No hiding, Spyder. Open those pretty little eyes," he says. "Show me all the sick shit running around inside that head of yours. Show me what you want."
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes, chanting in my head that he knows. Of course he knows.
"Show me."
I can't.
"Show me."
I can't bear to hear him tell me 'no.' Not again.
At my wince, he chuckles and lets his other hand slide up my thigh, knuckles pushing roughly against the place where my stockings are soaked. When he speaks, his voice is loud and firm. "Open up, sweet thing. Don't make Daddy pry you apart." My body begins to shake as he rubs me harder, his movements harsh and the scrape of his teeth across my cheek too familiar.
Giving another shred of myself away, I let my eyes and legs drift open. "Good girl," he murmurs. But I'm not. A good girl would be anywhere but here.
For a moment, I meet his gaze. There's no remnant of the Red that I remember in the near-black of his irises. There's none of the tenderness he used to use as he stripped and fucked and destroyed me.
There's no promise that he'll put me back together when he's done.
"Take off your clothes."
Everything in my body is shaking as he steps away, and the contrast between us couldn't possibly be clearer. Settling on a stool beside an easel, Red's movements are fluid and easy as he peels his shirt off, leaving me to stare at lean muscle and ink and skin. Dressed only in black leather pants and the boots I can still almost taste, he moves his hand to run along the hard line of his cock, stroking his thumb over the head.
"Naked, Spyder," he reminds me. The hand that isn't pressed against his cock rests on a little table, picking at brushes and palette knives as if he has nothing better to do, his eyes moving from the paints to me and back again. "I want you naked."
I shudder and lift my hands, letting them float up the wall before I rest them between my breasts. Still shaking, I pull at the ties of the bodice, unlacing myself and my sanity until I am bare. The silver barbells through my nipples glint in the light, and I can feel the hot burn of his gaze over the scarlet ink below my tit where he marked me years ago. I trace circles around it and remember his words.
I remember how he had promised to always keep me.
"I fucking love your tits," he says, and his voice is deep. I look up to find his zipper undone, his hand lost beneath the leather and his eyes hard. "I love knowing I'm still on your skin."
He is. On it, and under it, and inside me. Like the ink, he presence is permanent; no matter how hard I scrub, I can't wash it away.
Pressing my shoulder blades into the wall, I tilt my hips until I can reach the zip at the back of my skirt. The fabric falls away and I step out of the pool of black satin and tulle, lifting one leg and then the other to remove my boots. Only as I slide my tights and underwear down do I meet Red's eyes. They are hungry but distant, as if he's not really seeing me.
Moving deftly beneath the leather, I watch him grip the base of his cock, sliding his hand to the top as he finally pulls himself out. He's long and thick, the tip wet as he slowly strokes. Up and down. Up and down. He curls the fingers of his other hand in a gesture of beckoning, and, naked, I cross the floor.
"Put it in your mouth." When I hesitate -- uncertain not about whether or not I will do this, but about whether to bend at the waist or drop to my knees -- he puts a hand to my shoulder and makes the decision for me. Kneeling on concrete, I soften my lips, gazing up into steady, dark eyes before kissing the head. My lips part, my tongue dipping out, and he tastes bitter and warm, soft skin and hard need, as I close around him. In a series of open-mouthed explorations, I suck and lick and kiss and tease, moving down his length to take in one ball and then the other.
Impatient now, his fist closes around my hair, pulling me up and steadying his cock, feeding it to me. I let him push my head down until I can feel him in my throat, my eyes watering and the urge to gag intense. It's a toss-up whether it's the need to choke or the disgust I harbor for myself for giving in, but either way I push the instinct down and suck hard as I pull my head up. He stops me before I can pop off his cock completely, shoving me back down until my nose is buried in hair.
"So good," he groans. "Your mouth feels so fucking good."
My heart is so dry and deserted that even that small praise is the relief of cool water on my parched places. Moving of my own volition now -- but guided by him always -- I take him in again and again, gagging at the taste of pre-cum flowing in my mouth.
"Take it, little girl. Take all of me."
I do. I suck and stroke, my tongue thick on the underside, and for long minutes there is only the sound of wet sliding and of him grunting as he fucks my mouth. "Good girl," he murmurs, and I feel him tense -- feel the pulse of muscles and the thick, bitter salt of his cum as he empties down my throat.
Choking, I try to pull away, but he holds me there, finishing with a growl. When I finally pull off, he doesn't let me get far, batting away my hand as I try to wipe my mouth. One thick finger strokes my lips and chin, gathering what I have missed. "Open." I let him push his finger in my mouth, and I suck his cum from his skin, swallowing anger and lust and him.
I wonder if he's done with me now.
For an instant, his wet finger strokes my face almost affectionately, and were I more a fool than I am, I would almost think that there was something in his gaze that spoke of caring. But then, once more, he is pushing. It's softer this time, but still. I know what he is doing.
"Lie down."
I can feel my refusal on my lips, but my body is already acquiescing. The deep throb between my legs speaks for me, forcing me down until with a shiver I find myself flush with the smooth, cool floor. My thighs are slightly parted, my pussy exposed, and I let my arms fall to either side of my head.
Red pulls a loaded palette off the table and drops off the stool to crouch beside me, the rough pads of his fingers so warm against my skin as he drags them over my lips, my neck. Finally, they drift to my tits and waist and then my other lips, wet with want and surrender.
"You want this, don't you, Spyder?" As he pushes two wide fingers into my pussy, I moan and arch, the slick sound of wet flesh parting seeming loud in the space over my panting breath. "Don't you?"
I refuse to speak or move my head, my eyes trained on the ceiling as his hand pushes and twists, his thumb rubbing at my clit. Shifting, he straddles my thighs just above my knees, his mouth lowering so his teeth can tease the metal through my breast. "It's OK, little girl. You don't have to answer. You're fucking soaked for me."
I want to deny it but I can't. My body is begging for him to fill me, to fuck me and hurt me. My hands tug at my hair as he bites down on tender flesh, and I raise my head just enough to see the bare expanse of his back arching over me.
With a groan, I remember the day I saw that spine, bare and bent over a chair. At the time, I'd thought the black widow on his shoulder blade was spinning a web around his body.
It's only now that I realize that the web may be of her making, but that it is her prison. Not his.
Red pulls his hand from my cunt and wipes the wetness on my skin, tugging slightly at the hair I no longer bother to remove. "Dirty girl," he murmurs, and then he is reaching over his head toward the palette he placed on the floor. I do not watch what he is doing, even as I hear the scrape of metal on plastic, my eyes trained on the deep black stubble on his chin.
In my periphery, I see silver and scarlet and then there's a cool swipe against my cheek. The palette knife is slick with paint as he moves it over my body, tracing circles around my breast before covering his mark. I feel the sharp edge of it scratching my skin, and I wonder if the paint is the only source of red.
Then, with the cool blade of the palette knife circling the image of his name, he presses down harder, and I know he's breaking skin at the same time he is breaking me.
"My dirty girl," he breathes, and I sob.
"Not anymore."
The wicked gleam of his teeth shines white beneath the spotlight. "Maybe not." He tastes my cheek and my tears and licks his way to my ear. "But maybe you'll always be my dirty girl."
The sobs are silent this time as he scrapes more paint off the palette and moves the knife over my hip. I know he's tracing his name, and I know that by the time he's done, I will be just another painting like the ones I saw at the gallery. Just another testament to sex and violence and bone. Each time he makes me bleed, it's two-fold. Finally I feel him wipe the knife on my thigh, bringing a clean, cool blade to my sternum to trace one long line down my ribs.
I look down to find the only red there to be my own.
With the flat of his tongue Red moves up my body, licking the length of the shallow cut before hovering over me, his dick hard again and resting on my hip as his lips touch mine. "Show me what you want," he demands, and I find the strength to put my hands to the bare flesh of his chest, pushing up, but he will not be moved.
In five long years, I never moved him.
So instead, as always, I move myself. He makes space for me to roll until I am on my stomach, my knees moving to cold cement again and my hips lifting as I brace myself on my arms. A few trickles of paint and blood drip off my body with the shift in gravity, and I widen my legs to push my cunt at him. I face the slate grey of the floor, because it's easier to face that than him.
His cock is hot against my flesh, cool from so much time spent flush against the concrete. As I hover there, waiting for him to fuck me, I can feel his fingers trace his name just once more across my spine. Unexpectedly he leans forward, and I clench my eyes and fists at the tenderness in his kiss at the top of my spine, at the warmth of his breath against my neck.
"Tell me what you want, baby."
This sob is more powerful, ringing loudly in the space and rocking my ass back against his hips.
I want him to want me again. I want his name to be carved in my flesh more permanently, in a place where he can trace it every night.
I want him to still be the Red I fell in love with, when our passions were crimson and flame. Back before everything turned cool and distant and blue.
Before he told me he couldn't do this anymore.
Before he did it anyway.
Again and again and again.
His words from all those months ago echo in my head as a tear slips out from between my lids. "We can't keep doing this, Spyder," he'd whispered, gesturing to our room, torn and tattered from the constant tide of fighting and fucking. Fucking and fighting. Shards of glass from the picture frame I'd smashed had littered the floor, mingling with the broken pieces of the lamp we'd toppled as we'd fallen, still thrusting, to the floor. Screams of anger and sex had still been echoing in the room, our bodies naked and our insides flayed. I'd sucked on a cigarette, knowing it was the only way to keep him away.
Only I hadn't known how far away he would really go. "You can't really want this," he'd said.
I had. I'd told him so, begging him over and over to stay.
I want him still.
Shaking my head as he asks again, I push my hips back into him, hearing his 'no' repeating endlessly but feeling his hands digging into my hips. "Tell me."
I want him. I want him to see me as more than a comfort fuck. More than a little girl that will always be his, even though he'll never be mine again.
I want to be someone. Whole.
Filled.
I tell him the only thing I can -- the only thing I want that I can have.
"Fill me. Fuck me. Make me come." My arms shake and my knees threaten to fail as more quietly, I murmur, "Make me forget."
Red bites my neck, my whole body twisting against the sting and yet leaning toward it, too.
"We both know we won't forget this," he growls, and then he pushes into me. I cry out at the relief of his hips meeting my ass as he buries himself fully, his cock thick inside me and the grip of his fingers painful as he pulls me back to meet him. "Sometimes I wish I could forget." He pulls back and thrusts deeply. "Forget how fucking good your cunt feels around me. Forget how much we hurt each other, every fucking time."
I suck in a harsh breath through gritted teeth and push my legs even wider, opening myself for him. "Then why?" I pant. I close my eyes and bite my tongue. Why use me? Why hurt me? Why open this wound and make it bleed your name?
His grunting moan and his increased pace warn me that he's close. "Because I can't stop. God, I wish I could stop." As his hand comes down to rub my clit, I look back at him over my shoulder for the first time since he entered me. He's still half dressed, but there's something about his expression that is naked.
I'm suddenly sure that it's as naked as he's been in a year.
"Fuck," he groans, and it's almost pained as he slams into me. Circling my clit faster and harder, he manages the words we started the evening with. Only they're sharper now, needy.
"Come with me, damn it. Come, Spyder."
Three more swift, rough strokes hit the place he knows will ruin me. I scream his name to the sound of his own bellowing release. There's hot liquid flowing and my body is wrecked, pleasure radiating from my clit through my cunt until it possesses me and I fall, my temple crashing into concrete. Stars join the pulsing waves of light behind my eyes.
I don't know how long we lie like that, my chest flat against the floor and his collapsing over mine. With a wet sound of suction and flesh Red pulls out of me, and I can tell from the slick sliding that he fucked me bare. Again. If I had anything left to be outraged with, I'd be yelling at him, slapping him, rubbing his own cum on his thigh. Instead, I let the rest of my body fall.
My eyes stay closed as somehow he manages to turn me over. A few minutes later, there's warm, damp pressure on my skin as he presses clean painting rags to the places where he cut me. Gently he washes the paint away. By the time I'm back in my body, he's robbed me of almost every sign that I have been with him.
Even his cum is slowly seeping from my cunt.
As his final act he wipes me there as well, and I shudder at the unexpected pressure of his mouth, kissing just below my clit.
My voice is raw but tentative as I murmur, "Red?"
He looks up at me, betraying soft eyes for just an instant before he makes them hard again. Tapping once beside the deepest cut, he mutters, "I'm sorry," before looking away. He doesn't meet my eyes again as he stands and puts his clothes on, but I know that he can see me watching him.
I know he's angry he crossed the line again.
Fucking is one thing, and it's a mistake he's made often enough now. Talking and fucking is another, and talking and fucking and painting and cutting is yet another.
Especially when it devolves into kissing and cleaning me.
Especially when his pretense at putting me together pulls the stitches from my wounds and tears the seams.
Pain rips through my chest as he walks away from me, and I know it's time to leave. Spying my clothes where I left them near the door, I shiver as I start to rise off the floor. I'm embarrassed about walking naked and bleeding across the studio, even though the only person who will see me is the man who left me this way.
The man who always leaves me naked and bleeding.
Already fully dressed, Red piles up the dirty rags that bear the only evidence of what we've done. For a moment I wonder if he's about to light a match, to let everything between us really burn.
Instead, he returns with a simple plastic grocery bag, and the banality of it strikes me cold. A hollow laugh escapes my lips as I sit, running my hands through my hair and looking down at the faint marks that cover my body. In thin, shallow lines that barely break the skin, he's carved himself into me all over again. Claimed me and taken me.
And now that he's done, it's time to run.
He still can't handle me.
The breath of laughter hasn't even fully escaped my mouth before he is standing in front of me, my eyes even with the tops of his boots. With his knees. The garbage bag drops to the floor beside me, and he still won't meet my eyes.
"Take out the trash for me when you go, will you?"
I choke on his words, sputtering wildly, but there's no need for a retort. Already he's crossing the space, and a few seconds later the door slams closed behind him.
As I sink to the concrete floor, I wonder if by 'trash' he meant the bag.
Or me.
The bile in my throat wars with endorphins as I find my clothes and begin to cover my skin and my scars. My soaked and musky panties I do not put on. Instead, I wad them up in my fist and stare into the blackness beyond the spotlight's glow. Venturing into the parts of the studio that are dusty and old, I make my way to his rarely-used storage room and flip on the light.
I choke back one last sob as I see all the paintings from our life together piled up in the corner. They are covered in dust and sometimes in shrouds, and more than one looks like it's been punched through. I trace the ragged edges of the canvas around the hole and press my fingers to my lips before bringing them back to the image of his face.
It's fitting really. The haphazard pile of our past is sad and broken, tucked away where no one can see. And as such, it looks like us.
I hang my underwear on the corner of the frame, leaving the light on and the door open.
As I stagger out into the black night, I carry with me a bag of my blood, and of paint the color of his name. I drop it into the first corner garbage bin I find.
And then, as always, I walk on.
Jeanette Grey
Dedication
For Bekah, Bri and Gin, in gratitude for their wisdom and friendship.
About the Author
After brief careers in teaching, advertising, computers and home-making, Jeanette Grey has come back to her first two loves: writing and romance. Her short erotic fiction has previously been published online, and she is currently working on her first novel. She lives, loves and writes in North Carolina.
About the Story
Drawing and painting have always been hobbies of mine, and the process of making art features prominently in a lot of my story-telling."Bleeding Red" began with the idea of the human body as a canvas, with paint and ink and knives becoming the instruments with which one can literally leave one's mark on a lover. I believe that our past lovers always leave their names on our souls. This story is my way of exploring what would happen if they left their names on our bodies, too -- if we could never, ever fully wash them from our skin.
Love Letters
To: XX
Subject: Be careful what you wish for
I’d like to preface the following by reminding you that this is your idea. You want uncensored honesty. You think this letter writing exercise you found on ‘The Google’ will be good for us. I’ll tell you what I think.
I think in every relationship, each person has a little room of their own. You can fill it with anything you want and use it for whatever strikes your fancy. My room is filled with creatures, asteroids, indecisive metaphors, unmedicated manias, and evil robots—everything relevant to my inner life. They burrow in the walls and hang from the ceiling; sometimes they rearrange the furniture, but I don’t mind. My room exists only for me, and yet I use it almost exclusively for one thing—it’s the place I go to scream. I want you to understand that by asking me for the truth, you’re asking for a key to my room. And I want you to know that it’s because I do love you, that I’m going to give you everything you think you want.
What do I value most in our relationship? Well, that’s easy.
Implants. Fake tits of planetary proportions. Tight and shimmering, like pearls ready to crack, giving birth to acid-spitting dragons. Beautiful and monstrous. The nipples look like add-ons, rubbery tumors affixed to otherwise perfect spheres. Maybe not perfect—in relation to each other—the left is bigger than the right. Jupiter and Saturn. I read somewhere that if Jupiter were to get any bigger, it would start folding in on itself. But it’s the shape as much as the size, the infinite curvature of augmented flesh.
And before you implode, let me assure you that I am taking this seriously. If I weren’t you’d know—because I’d be typing the entire thing in Comic Sans.
Describe the day we met in my own words? Honestly, I don’t remember a lot about that. Or, more accurately, I didn’t notice much in the first place. But the things I did take note of are hung on the walls of my room, exquisite details unbleached by the passage of time.
A sweater, purple, but not purple, if black was purple, aubergine. Whatever. The spongy, if-black-was-purple material clings snug and smooth, except where it wrinkles in the crooks of your elbows. I only notice the crooks of your elbows because they neatly hem in the most astounding marvel of lopsided plastic surgery I’ve ever seen. One heavy breast rests on the edge of the McDonald’s tray you’re carrying, butting against the fries. Grains of salt stick like burrs to the knit fabric. The other breast hovers. Nestled in the sweater, they look soft, like foam soccer balls.
I’m not a creep. I don’t want to stare, but I’ve forgotten how to look away. I worked at McDonald’s when I was fifteen. A man wearing a red tie collapsed in front of me. He convulsed for five seconds before I understood I was witnessing a seizure. Twenty seconds passed before an old lady saw and knelt beside him, loosening the red tie. I was locked in my room looking out the window, screaming so loud it made the glass tremble. It never occurred to me that I might have loosened the red tie.
Now I’m grown-up, in a different McDonald’s, but held in the same state of surreal paralysis. I’m also painfully hard beneath the plastic table. Painful enough to seriously consider jerking off in public, going to jail and being added to that sex offender list. And over what—a set of giant, malformed tits?
We must have spoken at some point. If we hadn’t, it’s unlikely we would’ve ended up at your place that very afternoon. You remove the if-black-was-purple sweater, introducing me to your megalithic orbs. And they are outstanding. Your technique is just okay. Your underbite doesn’t help (it also makes you look like a Shih Tzu). I’ll be raw afterward but in the moment, I’m mesmerized by the sight of you on your knees, my dick sliding in and out of your mouth, framed by those freakish tits.
So that’s my version of our first meeting: purple-black sweater, ill-timed boner and a toothy blowjob. Sorry, but you know my memory sucks.
It’s only gotten worse since then. If someone asked me to describe you, all I’d be able to say is, Boobs! Huge Boobs! But then I’d provide the romantic details. I would tenderly (and honestly) describe glassy skin stretched over a blue mesh of veins cradling the unborn dragons. I’d wax poetical on the shadowy divide, lined with thin gold hairs, visible only in a certain wavelength of light. I’d sincerely over-share the heave and crush against my cock as I slide back and forth. No lube, just sweat, saliva and rough friction. Primitives, questing for fire. I’d confess that when I finally come on your tits, I’m nearly weeping, caught up in a crisis of obsession. I might also add that I’d rather fuck your dwarf planet breasts than your tiny, hairless, utterly unimpressive cunt. No dragons there.
Describe my favorite memory involving my partner. Hmm… have you ever had a recurring dream? I have, but really it’s a memory. It loops over and over in my sleep, surfacing like an ulcerated pit-beast hissing a siren’s song…
You’re drunk. So am I. When I ask, you balk. I go down on you until you flop like a flounder, scrubbing your clit against my front teeth. I ask again. You tell me you’ve never done that before (which I’m officially calling as bullshit right now). Then I think you say some stuff about trust and intimacy, but all I hear are the magic words, I guess so.
It’s sublime, better than I hoped and worse than I imagined. I hate myself. I hate you. I’m plunging through that damp, velvet canyon, trying to make it last and knowing it’s already done. I ejaculate, shooting right into your eye. I’m surprised—and sort of impressed—but you shriek and punch me in the throat, like I did it on purpose. I think I’m going to die. My last words, in a wheezing croak, What the fuck, you fuckin’ psycho bitch!
You must have cried or something, because once I realize I’m not going to die, I feel bad. I lick my semen off your globular tits, the ridge of your sternum and the hollow of your throat. It’s hot, sticky and salty-sweet, like butter rum Lifesavers melting in a dirty fist. It’s revolting, and I really get into it, sweeping my tongue over your offended eye and the tip of your nose that I remember being a cute little snub, but in reality I’m certain it’s hawk-like, with one of those bumps on the bridge. You laugh until I kiss your chapped lips, snowballing into your mouth. You swallow, bottom teeth scraping the underside of my tongue like they do my penis. Almost all my weight rests on Jupiter and Saturn. The fetal dragons squirm, glaring jade through pearly shells.
I’m hard again. This time I settle for the black hole of your pussy, eating my vegetables in the hopes of getting dessert. You bite my ear, telling me to fuck you harder, but I’m about to lose my erection. It’s dark in there, all wet suction and red meat. I’m scared. Any second you’re going to notice my softening member. Ignoring the puckered obscenities of your nipples, I wedge my face deep between your breasts. Your pounding heart is the epicenter of a seismic event, rippling through polished granite. It restores my erection, but my stomach cramps with a sudden craving for chocolate milk and Eggos. We orgasm together. I gasp out my mom’s name.
Bonnie? Who the hell is Bonnie?
Oh… shit. Nobody, it’s an ex… it’s nobody. Sorry, baby.
Fuck. It’s those tits. Christ almighty, what they do to me. They’ve cast their spell, and now I can never introduce you to my mother.
So that’s the dream, the favorite memory. I’m sorry for calling you a psycho bitch. Honest.
This isn’t one of the questions, but I think I should tell you about my recurring nightmare too. It also happens to be memory, a bad one.
I’ve been stomped on by women my whole life. And admit it, there are few things you get off on more than making me your bitch. In those situations, yeah, I like it. But sometimes it’s enough, you know? Just because I like certain things, doesn’t mean I want to talk about it. Do I lecture you every time you say ‘Nuke-yoolar’ or ‘Eye-talian’? No, I don’t. Mostly I just marvel at your molar-grinding stupidity. But you can never leave things alone. You are obsessed with talking, with communicating, with making sure we’re on the same page—which I’m pretty sure has yet to happen.
In this nightmare/memory we’re sitting at the kitchen table, eating Chinese take-out. You’re nattering non-stop, bitching, nagging and pseudo-psychoanalyzing my deviant inclinations. With a pair of chopsticks, I’m waging war against a recalcitrant dumpling and I’m so fucking sick of the sound of your voice. It’s like a fucking Kalashnikov on full auto. Finally I can’t tune you out anymore, and I do something.
I’m not going to write it. You know what I’m talking about. It was the first time the fanged shadows and barking demons I keep locked away managed to get out. You didn’t see them, but they were there all right. They speak in strange languages and their breath smells like spent matches. For a moment I saw your pale hair singe and curl. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real. And it’s getting harder.
But that’s no excuse for treating you the way I did. I know I hurt you. I would have stopped if you’d asked me to, but you didn’t, you wouldn’t. So now I dream about it, and I wake up gagging, with one of your long hairs snarled up in the back of my throat and sulfur burning my nose. I look at your broad shoulder rising and falling, and I feel like such an asshole… and I’m so glad you’re still here.
Maybe we talked it over, I can’t remember. Almost every time you open your mouth and sound comes out, my focus is about eight inches south of your jammy lips. I’m mired in a telepathic communion with the dragons. They whisper so quietly, it takes all my concentration to hear them.
So what’s our big problem? I’m pretty sure it’s me. I get that you are frustrated, and I get why, and furthermore, you are absolutely right. You are a fully realized individual, not merely the sum of your magical tits. I think your eyes are brown. I’m pretty sure you laugh like a drunk donkey. I’m certain the framed certificate over the computer desk says you have a master’s degree in Gender Studies. I know you like to sneak a finger up my butt when my cock is hard and thrusting between those asymmetrical abominations. I know I enjoy your digits, among other things, charming their way up my asshole, but hate it when you rake your nails over my balls. I know you were pissed when you got braces and I didn’t notice for a week.
I admit it’s a short list, lacking conviction. Jupiter and Saturn eclipse the rest, a complete occultation of all the things I should know and love about you, because I should love you. I should sob at your crap poetry, adore your snaggletooth grin, be considerate of your shellfish allergy and remember your birthday… but I just can’t. I’m trapped in a degrading orbit and if I’m being truthful, even your name escapes me at times. You can tell me, remind me, and nag me, but honestly? If it isn’t in my room, it isn’t on my radar. Unless it’s reflective, unyielding and stretched to the limit with winged reptiles trying to escape, then it’s irrelevant… just like your nipples.
Love,
XY
To: XY
Subject: Our love
Everyone has secrets. This letter is about honesty, but it’s also about secrets. I think there’s a difference. There are parts of me that belong in the past, things I’ve lost and buried at the side of the road. Those are my secrets, and I haven’t decided whether or not to tell them. But meanwhile, I’ll be honest.
I’ll also get right to the point, since I’m sure you think this is a ginormic waste of time. And I’m not as stupid as you think I am. I know ‘ginormic’ isn’t a word, but I’m using it anyway.
I know I must value something in our relationship. I’m just not sure what it is. You’re a shallow, titty-obsessed asshole. I hate you. I hate myself for being with you. You plod through life in an oblivious fog, completely unsupportive of my attempts to better myself (or you)... and I’m pretty sure you’re in love with your mother. In your defense, she’s quite fabulous. Bonnie and I have a lot in common. We talk on the phone at least once a day, swap recipes, go for pedicures, and both of us consider you a constant source of disappointment. She says I’m the daughter she should have had. So, even if Mommy is off limits, you can sort of pretend you’re screwing your sister. That’s almost as good, right?
But this letter is not about shitting on your miserable excuse for a personality (it really is) or convincing you that I’m your soul mate (I really am). This letter is about honesty and getting to the inner truth of our love.
You ever notice how broken women are irresistibly attracted to selfish, immature losers? The day we met was the best and worst day of my life.
I’m in McDonald’s. Dr. Bernstein’s is slowly killing me with ketosis, and my hormones are screwed up. I’m going insane and ready to take everybody with me. I order a cheeseburger Happy Meal—no bag please—and slip the bobble-headed princess whatever in my handbag. I collect Happy Meal toys, but I don’t need everyone in the restaurant knowing that. The plastic dining room is crowded. I’m looking for an empty table when I see you. Or more honestly, I see you gawking at my breasts.
Fair enough. I have self-esteem issues, and some greedy quack nodded his head, agreeing with everything I thought I wanted. I guess I’m taller and a little broader in the shoulders than your average girl, but these things would look out of proportion on an elephant. He did a terrible job to boot. Then I was in a car accident, and there’s something that happens when implant meets airbag that’s not good. But it’s not all bad either. My unusual body supported me all the way through grad school.
Okay, secret number one: I used to be an actress. Yes, that kind of actress. I only did girl-on-girl though. I’m not exactly bisexual; it’s more that I’ve always had a unique understanding of both genders. Anyway, I was an actress. My screen name was ‘Lady B.’ and I faked dozens of orgasms a day. I’ve always had a bit of trouble getting there, even when I don’t have a camera in my face and I’m not so pilled up I’m seeing triple. That’s how comfortable I am with you, baby. I get off almost every time. I don’t mind assisting either, because honestly you don’t seem to have a damn clue. But you do make the effort, and I appreciate that.
So anyway, I’m already depressed, and I haven’t even blown my diet yet (I still really want to lose three pounds). You’re worshipping the twins from your corner table. It makes me feel pretty. You’re okay looking, even if you have a leather Faith No More jacket hanging off the back of your chair. You don’t look homeless, and I can tell by the set of your stubbly jaw and weak chin that you are exactly the kind of thin-blooded, passive-aggressive jerk a girl like me is drawn to like a rare earth magnet to iron. I walk right over and ask to share your table. Your mouth opens and closes a few times before you squeak out, sure. It’s cute—you look like a brain-damaged guppy. We talk a little. You stare at my tits and tell me you work in IT, but have a graphic novel that you’re shopping around. As a creative person myself, I have a soft spot for artists.
I’m guessing you’re at least three inches shorter than me, but not short enough to have a complex. You don’t live with your parents, so maybe that cancels out the likely MMO addiction. I tell you about my job as a human resources manager and about my jewelry design business. You don’t listen, but you pretend to, and I still think you’re cute.
We go back to my place. I’m not a slut, but I’m worried you won’t call me like you said you would. I offer oral sex. You accept. I instantly lose respect for you. But I still think you’re pretty cute, and I still want you to call me. You have trouble maintaining an erection, but I’ve always been very understanding about that sort of thing, and I have all kinds of industry tricks. Did I tell you I only did girl-on-girl? I meant that and blowjobs.
You sniff my sweater when you think I’m not looking. So now I know I’m dealing with a perv. It’s okay—if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everyone’s got kinks. As soon as my breasts are exposed, you’re rock hard, ready and curving waaay to the right. It makes me horny. I love unusual penises, the quirkier the better. I’m sucking your boomerang cock, doing a pretty good job, but not too good. I don’t think you notice me sink my hand into my jeans. My clit is a hard little marble, and I bite you just the tiniest bit when I orgasm. You wince and I feel bad, so I let you come on my face.
My phone rings the next night at 12:39 a.m. (I wrote it in my diary). I tell you to come right over. When you tell me you can’t, because you’re drunk, I go over to your place. By sunrise I’m sure of two things: you are a juvenile, self-centered son of a bitch, and I am utterly, head-over-heels into you.
And I know you stole my purple sweater.
My favorite memory? It’s a night like any other, where you’re begging to fuck my tits because you’re too scared to stick your precious penis in my vagina like a grown-up. I say no. We argue. You call me a cunt. I slap you across the face. Both of us apologize but neither of us means it. Then I get the idea. Did I tell you I only did girl-on-girl and blowjobs? Well, ‘Lady B.’ also used to do this other thing.
You’re drunk. Not drunk enough. I feed you more vodka. By now I’m pretty wasted too. I have a hard time remembering how the strap-on harness buckles around my hips and legs, how to fasten it tight enough, but not so tight that it pinches. You pretend not to notice what I’m doing—just like you pretend you don’t love it when I slide my fingers up your ass when you’re between my breasts.
I start yelling at you, calling you a maggot and making you crawl around on your hands and knees. I order you to lick my toes. You pretend you aren’t into it, but your iron-hard, dripping erection has a contrary opinion. Then I tell you to suck my black, silicone cock. You do it, but only after I promise that it doesn’t make you gay—which is entirely stupid. For the record: sucking artificial dick doesn’t make you gay, dumbass. Being gay makes you gay. And you can’t make yourself gay anymore than you can make yourself straight or turn straw into gold, or a dog into a cat, or you into anything resembling a well-adjusted, confident example of masculinity.
Did you get that? I’m not asking you to change, baby, because I know you can’t. I’m not asking you to change, but I know you can be so much better. You have the heart of an artist and the soul of a poet. Which again, is probably why you’re an insufferable asshole.
But getting back to my favorite memory…
Watching you kneeling in front of me, taking that black dildo in your mouth, is the most erotic moment of my life. You grab my hips, pushing me against the wall, aggressive in your submission. You’re licking and sucking the strap-on. The flared base of the dildo rocks against my pubic bone and the straps tug at my thighs. The wall is cold on my ass and shoulder blades. The old bat upstairs is watching Jeopardy at top volume. I can smell the cabbage she’s cooking. She hollers at the television, probably shaking her cane with its three rubber feet. I focus on the sucking sounds coming from your mouth. Your lips are wet and swollen, pomegranate pink against glistening onyx. Pushing away the cabbage, I smell your sweat mixed with Speedstick and strawberry-flavored lubricant. When I moan, you take a hint (for once) and slip your fingers between the leather straps of the harness. My clit is fattened up to the size of a finch’s egg, and I grind against your hand, sliding the dildo in and out of your mouth.
You’re stroking yourself too. I like watching men masturbate—rigid flesh squeezing through from pink to red to purple and back again, like your face when you have a temper tantrum. Now you’re fingering me while rubbing my clit with your thumb and working the dildo with your mouth. I’m drunk on Absolut vodka and absolute power.