“Well, I Prefer It.”
by Shaun Terry
Warning: this is sexually graphic.
She yelled and then pushed, her naked tits hopping in front of me. She asked me why I’d done that, and I simply sat there, the pool of saliva growing inside my mouth. You’ll catch a fly before long, my mother would’ve said. Of course, my mother would’ve said a lot if she’d borne witness to this.
I didn’t have an answer for Charlene – “Charlie,” as I liked to call her – because I’d never even thought about it. What makes someone prefer french toast to pancakes? Blackberries to blue ones? A landing strip over full bush? What makes a person bite your mouth so hard that it bleeds?
It took me a few days to figure it out, and maybe I didn’t figure it out, but I know that I like the metallic taste; I like how it’s not thick or thin in a way that any other liquid is, I like that, in these moments, the line between pleasure and pain isn’t a line at all – in fact, I don’t think that there’s any distinction. I like that, when I taste blood, for a moment, I become concerned with whether it’s my blood or someone else’s. When I taste blood, my brain asks what it is, even though I already know, and even though I’m afraid, I’m satisfied.
But Charlie must think that I’m crazy. Maybe I’m crazy. My mom would probably think I were crazy, if she were still around to take a guess. And why hadn’t I recognized that this isn’t normal? Why had I thought that I could just go for it like that?
By this point, Charlie’s satin-y blue panties are halfway up one thigh, and wrapped around the knee on her other leg. She’s yelling something, but what is it?
She thought that we were friends and not that she was my whore. What the fuck do I say to that?