Abie Fucks Me Over

Abie really loves fucking. I like fucking all right but my nervous breakdown has wrestled me to the ground. I look at Abie's shoulders and the way his arms hang out and down, and I think here is a man with solid shoulders who hugs me like a humping dog. Besides I'm starting to like this little house. The first time I sleep over, there are two plump pillows on Abie's single bed. "I told you my parents are cool," he says. We lie down and he starts his vaudeville routine: french kissing, fingering tits, nipple twisting and squeezing (my bald Uncle Charlie used to pinch-and-twist my cheeks and I never liked that much either), then he Frenchy kisses me, I Frenchy kiss back, he rubs my crotch, I sway in time. It's like dancing - he leads left foot forward, I respond right foot back, only this time his cock leads which is less complicated since I'm not much of a dancer.

"Wait, I say, "I have to tell you something."
"Go ahead," he says reaching into my panties and twitching my clit like a hyperactive kid fiddling with a light switch.
"Stop," I say, but he keeps on rubbing and squeezing and pressing himself against me.
"I said goddamn it stop, get your goddamn hands off me."
"O.K. O.K.," he says. "Easy now."
"I just want you to know it's all an act."
"What's an act?"
"This. It doesn't feel good, I can't come."
"But I feel you inside."
"You feel yourself inside. Damn you, I said I can't come. I mean who the fuck are you? It's a dribble that's all, just a fucking dribble."

Abie sits up and looks at me, his low brow wrinkling. " But I'm in the top two percent," he says, because he comes, wakes up in the middle of the night for a second helping, building up for thirds and fourths by early morning. I think the workers topping his semen supply are overworked - no union there. I'm a union organizer's daughter setting up a picket line where it counts.

"Hey, it's like anything else, it takes practice," he says. He lies on top of me and kisses my neck below my left then right ear, “I love you, you know that, love you.” I know he means it, but like any mama's boy, he listens to his cock.

I'm listening with my eyelids forced shut to ease the passage of his words. I figure I can transport the essence of his message directly from his mouth to my cunt, no stop-overs, no detours. I'm trying to focus, clenching my eyes shut like I’m constipated and trying to take a shit when I catch sight of my mother.

"Oh my god Abie, I see her." I grab his solid shoulders. "I see her up there. She's coming at me. Hold me. She's coming down! Oh god I can't stop her! She's coming for me."
"Who's coming? Janice, who is it? Tell me who it is."
"It's a witch. Holy shit, the witch, it's Mummy. Her nails, she's going to rip at me with her nails. Cover me, lie quickly on me, she's coming closer, oh no, I can't, she's laughing. Oh Abie, her nails!"

I'm clutching on to the bony knuckles at the back of Abie's shoulders, and he spreads himself over me, offering up full-body protection. He soothes me with his kisses and sings soft songs into my hair.

"I can't breathe," I say, twisting my head out from his turtle shell.

Meanwhile, his prick is poking around like a divining rod. "Listen, my sweet, there's no witch, no mummy, only you and me. Only you and me. Let me come inside you."
"You think it’ll help?”
“Yes,” he says, “definitely.

All night he stays inside, sometimes just his cock’s cold tip slips in, other times the whole damn thing grabs space like a kid hogging the blanket, as I cringe from my mother and the witches. Even when I tell him how I hate him and bite his shoulders, he holds me. Then I lie and say I love you too, and I rub against him grinding my hips which he takes as an invitation and zooms right on in. And all the while I'm thinking─in the end you'll go like the rest of them, you'll speed off in your Daddy's Pontiac and maybe I'm at the door waving and smiling my after-sex smile or I'm out there running after you, dust circling my ankles, my bathrobe coattails flying. "Stay," I'm calling, "stay, just one more,” and I lean against the doorway with your salt still on my tongue. The fuck was on me. On the house. But the next time you gotta pay. Next time. Although you know you'll never see me again. I won't be the same next time. Hold me, hold me close. I don't know where I'm going. Let me look at you. Kiss me, oh kiss me again.

Coyright Janice Colman 2008