An; I had to change the chapter titles/act numbers so I can start writing Roger's POV in the next chapter
Diary entry,
14th July, 1981
"Do you ever feel like you're a vessel? Here for his pleasure, but not your own?" Even Chrissy could not understand my ramblings. Maybe that's because she has a husband for whom loving is fun, sex is fun, meant to be fun, for both parties, rather than that biological necessity to be carried out twice weekly. It's not even that I object to having sex with Roger - he would never make me do anything I didn't long to do - but somehow, the fun has gone from it. Its not like its a chore, for neither of us really do anything but lay there, but still, I miss it, sometimes, the way we would play under the covers in our earlier years. The positions we would try, the names, the choking, the kissing, the foreplay. These days, I have a few kisses on the neck before he takes me from behind, on those rare occasions my body excites his own enough that he has to have me. Two minutes of a sensation I would describe as merely likeable until he is finished, rolling off me, the vessel he has used for his own pleasure. I never grudge him for it - we are both busy people, who do not have the hours to spend in the bedroom we had in our youth - but once, just once, it would be nice if he pondered what to do to make Victoria finish.
I awake to his lips against my neck. His arm has snaked around my waist, pulling me closer under the blanket we share. I hadn't heard him come in, smelling of liquor, but I hear him now, his breathing laboured and shallow, his face burrowed in the crux of my neck. I can feel him pressed hard against my hip. Even in my drowsy state, I know that the shared blanket will soon be on the living room floor, the sofa creaking under the ferocity of Roger fucking me, at least, for a minute or so.
Once he realises I am awake, his hands begin wandering, grazing the skin under my thin pj top and my burning thighs. His touch is light, not as skilful as it used to be; still, I find myself emitting small moans, because it has been so long since anyone has bothered to touch me. I am just beginning to melt beneath him when his fingers dip beneath my shorts, pulling my underwear to one side.
"I want you, Tori" he breathes against my neck.
Whether it is the use of the long abadoned pet name or just the thought that he could want me still, I find myself nodding my assent.
****
Less than five minutes later, Roger rolls off of me, still coming down from his high. So dazed are his features, he doesn't realise mine have morphed in disapointment. I feel strangely empty, almost like a vessel, as he lazily throws the condom into the bin, his eyes fluttering closed. This time, I didn't even feel full when he was inside me.
He doesn't bother to pull me close, or congratulate me, as he once would have done. He doesn't ask how it felt, check cheekily if he was as good as I remembered, as he would have done a half a decade ago. He does nothing to note my presence. He couldn't even bring himself to notice my presence when he was fucking me; sure, he was a little more animated than usual, his hand pulling tightly at my hair, his fingernails digging into my hips as he thrusted deeper inside of me than he has in years, but other than that there was recognition; no touches, no kisses, no words between us. Nothing to distinguish me as the woman he supposedly loved. He would have mindlessly fucked some groupie the same way. At least, that's how it feels. My lungs feel physically crushed at the realization that the love isn't there anymore. Perhaps that was why I felt so empty this time, even when he was inside me. He was no longer acting out of love.
How do I compare? I think bitterly, biting my lips to prevent the words tumbling out. Were you imagining her when you fucked me? Do you save your better loving for her, the kisses, the whispered encouragments, the carresses? Is that why you do not moan my name, in case you accidentally say hers?
