A Night with Alex
This IS fiction, rest assured. – Short thing I wrote on a sudden muse. – I own nothing worth owning.
He was rough, no doubt about that. I'm left with bruises and bite marks all over. It was nothing like how I'd imagined.
I was in girlish awe, I must admit, when I saw him. Shaggy blonde hair, pale eyes, the ugly, alluring leer of a long idolized droog. Such a dark longing, as I watched him, sure of the fact that he was unattractive and passive to that fact as I lusted. It didn't matter how handsome or not he was. But, to my deep horror I was thinking illogical thoughts about this unassuming specimen of a young man, for I was not lusting for him, but for my dearest Alex that I had long fantasized about.
He never knew, nor cared, and as he and I and the intimate group of peers we had each came with stood out in the hot, humid summer woods at midnight, we drank the ill gotten bounty of illegally acquired booze. We drank, we became drunk, and dispersed, as teenagers tend to do, a helter-skelter collective of no real rhyme or reason and building to a vastly disappointing anti-climax and scattering. The whole time I was spending more and more time in my thoughts swirling around this man, this Alex of my fantasies. I might just blame it on the drinks. I might. But I cannot to myself deny that I would have done it anyway, done it because of my obsession and God I hate myself for that. I hate myself for the weakness.
My friends went home. His friends went home. And I went to his bed.
Alex, glorious Alex, I had thought the whole time. And sorely awakened as it happened. Sorely, as his rough hands squeezed and pinched and twisted and his teeth raked across my skin. It had began so wonderfully, the pain sending jolts down my body delightfully, just as I imagine Alex would have done to me. And then it became harder and more painful but not a good hurt but a searing, terrible pain. He had his fill of me and never uttered a word. And I never stopped.
I showered the next day, feeling dirtier than I had ever felt in my life, used and tossed aside and disgusted. And what a fool I was to think that my 'dear' Alex was anything but that nameless boy who left me bruised and alone. As if 'my' Alex would have made gentle love and not had his heated, drunken fuck with a mouthful of blood from my shoulder and a good sleep right after. He was 'my dear, glorious' Alex that I had dreamed of night after night, I realize now; he was exactly that.
I suppose I got my wildest fantasy after all.