Contributor: Will Lawrence
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She didn’t know what was wrong with her.
Was she unstable?
Was she a pervert?
Could this be a gateway fetish to something more bizarre, like S&M, or licking a man’s anus?
Her boyfriend left her three weeks ago this Thursday.
It was Tuesday.
And now she felt damaged, unworthy of another long-term suitor, because she would inevitably carry this peculiar desire over from one relationship to another, and so on and so on… until, she feared, word would spread, and every eye belonging to every man, woman, child, and animal she passed in her day-to-day life would be not only aware, but firmly fixated on her, for that one and only reason.
She would probably die alone. She couldn’t be more certain of that. She continuously told herself she was going to die alone, over and over, each and every day, and now she fully trusted the idea, firmly believing in her own ridiculous foresight.
She hid faceless in Internet chat rooms and on message boards, dating sites and personal ads, believing what she was doing was nothing more than research – a quest – for a potential husband, or at the very least a loving, caring, understanding life-long companion. But all they ever turned out to be were one-night stands, leaving her unfulfilled, but more than anything, embarrassed and ashamed of herself, while they would leave with yet another notch in their belts and a great little story to laugh about with their buddies over drinks. It didn’t take long for her to realize the safest bets were hooking up in parts of the city where she was unlikely to ever run in to her one-shot beaus again, and to start using “fake” names.
Thank God for old high school enemies.
But was this thing just a sickness that would continue to live on, an incurable disease?
Even after her eventual demise, was this something that would haunt her even beyond the grave? Would this be her legacy? She couldn’t help but return to that terrifying belief, that these partners – each one she had infected, even amidst their dim-witted, dullard exteriors – would grow old, have wives, children – families – and tell their son’s tales, during late nights when boundaries cannot be crossed, when nothing seems remotely right nor wrong, about that one revolting night in the history of their youth. And she would be the siren who’d got the best of them, led them astray, but nevertheless sent them along to reiterate the tale of the woman who couldn’t help but be turned on to hear her men fart during sex.
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I like to write stuff.
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She didn’t know what was wrong with her.
Was she unstable?
Was she a pervert?
Could this be a gateway fetish to something more bizarre, like S&M, or licking a man’s anus?
Her boyfriend left her three weeks ago this Thursday.
It was Tuesday.
And now she felt damaged, unworthy of another long-term suitor, because she would inevitably carry this peculiar desire over from one relationship to another, and so on and so on… until, she feared, word would spread, and every eye belonging to every man, woman, child, and animal she passed in her day-to-day life would be not only aware, but firmly fixated on her, for that one and only reason.
She would probably die alone. She couldn’t be more certain of that. She continuously told herself she was going to die alone, over and over, each and every day, and now she fully trusted the idea, firmly believing in her own ridiculous foresight.
She hid faceless in Internet chat rooms and on message boards, dating sites and personal ads, believing what she was doing was nothing more than research – a quest – for a potential husband, or at the very least a loving, caring, understanding life-long companion. But all they ever turned out to be were one-night stands, leaving her unfulfilled, but more than anything, embarrassed and ashamed of herself, while they would leave with yet another notch in their belts and a great little story to laugh about with their buddies over drinks. It didn’t take long for her to realize the safest bets were hooking up in parts of the city where she was unlikely to ever run in to her one-shot beaus again, and to start using “fake” names.
Thank God for old high school enemies.
But was this thing just a sickness that would continue to live on, an incurable disease?
Even after her eventual demise, was this something that would haunt her even beyond the grave? Would this be her legacy? She couldn’t help but return to that terrifying belief, that these partners – each one she had infected, even amidst their dim-witted, dullard exteriors – would grow old, have wives, children – families – and tell their son’s tales, during late nights when boundaries cannot be crossed, when nothing seems remotely right nor wrong, about that one revolting night in the history of their youth. And she would be the siren who’d got the best of them, led them astray, but nevertheless sent them along to reiterate the tale of the woman who couldn’t help but be turned on to hear her men fart during sex.
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I like to write stuff.
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Author:
Will Lawrence
