A Very Bad Idea
Ishouldn’t have let this man into my bedroom. I’m courting danger, but I can’t help myself.
I could blame the idiocy on the fact my parents died when I was a baby.
I could rationalize that scraping by day to day with an absolute shit job has driven me to desperation.
Maybe I’m just not a good person, and that’s why I invited this random guy home.
No matter the reason, the need to act out overwhelms me with hot whips of resentment and long suppressed anger. Bitterness at how my life has turned out. Fury over being abandoned by the one I thought would never leave me, when everyone else had.
I’m lashing out and this guy in the rumpled tee with glassy, bloodshot eyes is in danger. He doesn’t even know it.
It’s hard to ignore the unpleasant bristle of his beard against my sensitive flesh. The smell of vodka oozes from his pores and sweaty, thick hands reach for my top. He rips my shirt overhead, leaving me in my bra. Goose pimples rise across my arms and stomach as soon as I’m exposed.
I’ve never brought a man back to my place. I never let anyone get this close to me. With good reason. It puts them in danger.
This feels wrong. All wrong. But the vanilla vodka shots I took at the bar down the street somewhat dull my revulsion as I kiss him again. Numb warmth wrapped around my body hours ago, allowing me to go through with this. I don’t normally drink either, but tonight I’m not myself.
His lips are earnest and sloppy, but I treat it like any other task. Like tending to the numerous toilets I clean all day. Like vacuuming floors, this is just another task. Just another way to get through the day.
Life has made me mean and selfish. Bringing him here is either evidence that my humanity has been ground out of me or that I’m truly desperate.
Iamdesperate. Desperate to be cared for. But not by this guy. I want to capture the attention of someone impossible and terrifying in his greatness.
Hands roughly knead my breasts through the thin, shiny bra—a thrift store find chosen precisely to bait an unsuspecting mark for my vengeful scheme.
"You’re so hot," he whispers.What’s his name again?"I love how long your hair is. It’s so pretty and dark. And your scar is so cool."
I cringe at hearing his voice. My fingers cover his mouth, signaling I don’t want him to speak again.
I never let anyone get close enough to see the peculiarities that set me apart—like the striking emerald green of my eyes that some have said are too vibrant to be natural.
His fingers rub over the red vein-like lines that branch out from my neck down my left shoulder before dipping over my breasts. Doctors say it’s a birthmark, though it looks like I’ve been struck by lightning and left with a scar. My skin is so paleit’s damn near translucent, which makes the fern pattern stand out even more.
The guy’s shirt goes over his head and falls on my bedroom floor. I briefly wonder if a cockroach will nest in it. My landlord pretends to listen, but I’ve been boiling in my apartment with a broken thermostat. I can’t get my window to open, and every day I have to hopscotch around the big fat pests.
Either this guy—whose name I forgot—doesn’t care about the state of my shitty apartment, or he is too drunk to notice.
The backs of my knees hit the bed, and a thrill shoots up my stomach. Not because of the man whose hands are fumbling with the latch at the back of my bra.
No. My heart picks up speed because of the bed itself. Of what it means. Of what it could bring.
A draft sweeps across the room, caressing my legs. A familiar chill creeps up my spine. The wind didn’t breeze in from the window. It came from under my bed.
The spike of adrenaline cuts through the liquor-fueled haze and suddenly I’m too aware of what I’m doing. Guilt clogs up my throat.
All I can think is this is wrong. All wrong.
A flicker in the periphery of my vision catches my attention—a shadow that seems to move against the light filtering in from the next room. But when I look again, there’s nothing.
I try to push the guy away, but somehow end up falling back on the bed myself. He instantly scrambles on top. His weight is suffocating, and with each passing second, panic rises in me. He managed to get the bra undone, but the straps are trapped around my shoulders. The broken cups tangle up over my nipples. His coarse chest hair grates against my bare skin, causing my stomach to lurch with nausea.
"No," I murmur against his amorous kisses. My knee moves, trying to wedge between his hardness and my center.
"Relax, baby girl," he moans, pushing my protective leg away and grinding harder. "Jimi will take care of you so good."
Bile rises at the back of my throat as ice cold reality washes over me. How could I have been stupid enough to put myself in this position?
