I lost control because the feeling filled me up. It took my mind off things, off people, off pain. The days clogged up as I got backed up in sweat, in breath, in saliva. People I talked to once became my lovers faster than I could see them get undressed. Sometimes they wouldn't get undressed. February and March were a frozen hell, but the heat of skin on skin seared the hole in my chest and lit the membranes of my hands.
My grades slipped. My friends slipped. My body slipped in between new men and old, my mind's flora of penises growing like mold. Two weeks of empty passion and unprotected bodies smothered my weak form until it caught up to me, a fire within contracted from the fire outside.
His car waited at the end of my drive, the night sky suffocated under a thick winter overcast. His twin headlights jutted out through the trees like handsome yellow eyes following my figure as I slinked out the front door and latched it with the softest and most delicate of hands. I waved at him. He blinked back at me, adjusted himself in his seat, and settled his hand between his legs.
The snow crunched under my shoes, and I cringed in fear of my stepfather rushing out in a fit of sleep-deprived hysteria to assault an assumed intruder. He unlocked the door and spit out a wad of fat gum as I climbed in and gave him a smile. His pants were already pulled down before I could put my seatbelt on. My head went down; his eyes rolled up.
His right hand rested on the nape of my neck as he eased up on the brake and rolled off down our country road. He growled as I applied pressure and he tried to shove my head further. I gagged. Spit shot out of my mouth and dribbled down my chin. Tears rushed to mingle with the juice as it trickled into his skin and made a nasty mixture on his lap.
"Deeper," he moaned.
I shook my head, and he shot a glare down at me. He pulled onto the highway. The lights flit in between the hard edges of his face and the back of my head bobbing like a buoy out on rough waters.
"I said deeper," he said.
His hand came down, my throat squeezed, and the bile came up all at once in a stream of vomit across his lap. My mouth froze, every nerve ending singed from the acid tickling away at my throat.
"Did you just throw up?"
I sat up. He glanced down at his lap. His face paled and the reflection off the fluorescent lights gave him a ghostly sheen. His hand shot back and retrieved a towel from the backseat.
"I'm sorry--" I started.
"Shut up," he shouted. "Clean it off."
I quickly scrubbed at it, the smell making my stomach gurgle and threaten to shoot up more fluid. He felt it. His hand caressed his lap for a second, and I dreaded hearing him speak because I knew the command he would give me.
"Keep sucking it, come on."
His hand grabbed my head and he forced himself into my quivering mouth. I let myself cry, but not because of the foul vomit filling up my nose and mouth, but at my pathetic submission to such a demand. I had become a slave for the lust I seeked. We pulled into a truck stop, and he had his way with me in one of the stalls. His nose glued to a bottle of poppers and his body to the inside of mine.
His body relished in mine long after he dropped me off at home without bothering to kiss me goodnight. A burning relish infecting my insides and leaking out of me in an oozing puss. I told my mother. She called me a whore. I don't remember breaking in front of her, letting myself convulse and shrink down into a fetus. I wanted her to sympathize. I wanted her to understand. The empty pain and the empty guilt burrowed itself into my sex-addicted veins.
I recalled 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, and 20. My body deteriorated and my mind lost its hold on what I loved to do and who I cared about. Death looked appealing. It made sweet love to me in my dreams and pleasured me better than any man I knew could. The infection oozed out of me and my affection for life followed suit.
I groveled to myself. I begged my legs to cease their bloodlust and close. I begged my hands to calm their desperate reach. I stopped. All at once, the storm eased up and the clouds parted for a moment. I tried, and somehow, I rose again. My legs zipped up. The images of their heat faded until I could only recall faces and regrets. Oh, how I regretted it.
