Monthly Archives: February 2014

Preview of “It Got More Complicated than That”

Here is a preview of the book I am currently working on. What do you think happen might happen next? Taking suggestions on what the woman’s name could or should be. Enjoy!

She didn’t even know he was inside her until he uttered something incomprehensible, something that sounded like he had just said – do you like that, bitch. Somehow, that’s when she first realized what was about to happen to her, what was happening to her. She felt a single tear roll down her face. She told herself not to cry, that crying would only make it worse. She lied there, waiting for it to be over. Hoping it would end soon. Praying that he wouldn’t snap her puny neck, with his hard, rough, calloused hands.

She labored to shift her hips under his thick, heavy body.  Nothing happened, so she shifted them again and groaned, desperately trying to give the illusion that she was enjoying it, too. If for nothing else, so he wouldn’t become even more angrier than he already was.

He spoke more inaudible sounds words. She lied there, wondering what would happen next. She felt his hands yanking at her shoulder, and he turned her onto her stomach, like her was flipping over a hamburger.

There he was. Inside of her. Finally, she thought, waiting for it to be over. She liked it better this way. She could cry into the pillow and he wouldn’t feel her tears, like he did the last time. The time he bit her on the nipple for crying. You want something to cry about, she remembered him screaming that night. He pushed his way around, thrusting back and forth like he was trying to capture some wild animal. She couldn’t tell why, because she was being quiet and still. There was no fight in her. Nothing to protest the thrusting and thrashing. She clung to the pillow, telling herself it would end soon.

But it wasn’t soon enough. She was hurting. He moved around inside of her like it was his first time carving a turkey – slashing at anything that felt like flesh, and hacking away at everything else. He can have my vagina, she began telling herself, as the tears continued rolling onto her pillow. Just please Lord, make him stop. She was praying to anyone – God, Jesus, Jehovah, Buddha, Allah, anyone who would listen. But no one heard her weak cries, or felt the twinge in her inner thighs from what felt like a foreign object being shoved inside her, or saw the painful look in her eyes as she lied under a man she had vowed to love, in front of all of her family and friends, and even God. A man who had given her two beautiful children, and a house, and trips to the Caribbean. A man who only asked for some pussy every now and again, and a beer and a blowjob whenever he had a shitty day at work. But she couldn’t do it. Not without thinking about the time he bit her on the nipple, or the time he slapped her head against the window as she drove him to the airport, or the time…it was becoming a blur. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. This wasn’t making love. She felt like she was getting fucked by her husband. Not in rough, yet exhilarating sort of way, either. She was getting fucked as if she was a prostitute and he was another John, slapping her on the ass, yanking her hair, smacking her across the face, treating her like a piece of shit, simply because he was paying for sex. And he felt just as strange to her, like he was, in fact, some strange guy paying for sex, with no relation to her and no care or concern for her needs, her wants, what would make her feel good. All he needs is some pussy now and again, she told herself.

She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he had stopped – at least for the moment. Her heart was beating loud that and strong, yet with her head burring in the pillow, it sounded both clear and muffled, like the sound parents hear when they go for an ultrasound of their growing fetus. He said something else, and she couldn’t make that out either.

When liquid splashes on the floor, it makes an oh shit sound. As is oh shit, I accidentally spilled a glass of water. Or, oh shit, now I have to clean up that glass of water. That oh shit sound had now caused her to lift her head from the pillow. She turned around and found her husband on his stomach, lying adjacent to her, with his head hanging off the bed, with strands of puke dangling from his mouth.

She rolled off the bed and slipped into her housecoat. She grabbed a towel from the closet and began cleaning the vomit from the floor. On her hands and knees she was meticulous about getting every clump of regurgitated food. She didn’t mind the stench. At least it’s over, she told herself. His hard, rough, calloused hands are off me, and its over.

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