Chapter 66
I tug my tampon out of me and wrap it in some tissues before stuffing it in my glove compartment, then wipe myself down with a half-dry tropical-scented Wet One from the pack I’ve had crammed in my center console for years, then shove the wipe in the glove compartment too. Glove compartments are scary places.
He lets me in through the back door. Tells me I look amazing and that we don’t have long, in that order. Always in that order. First the compliment, then the disappointment.
I look down at my outfit, the plaid miniskirt and collared crop top that I plucked from The Bin in the trunk of my car.
“The Bin” is a strategy I started three weeks back when Mr. Korgy texted me on short notice to hang out and I was at the grocery store, in sweats with prickly legs and a bun of hair that was long overdue for a wash.
By the time I went home and changed, I’d missed my window.
I vowed to never again be unprepared, to never again miss an opportunity to spend time with him, so I started The Bin, a plastic bin in my trunk that I keep stocked with makeup essentials and a collection of tight jeans and short skirts and snug-fitting tops.
Today was The Bin’s day to shine. I got Korgy’s text twenty minutes ago, ducked out of work with a quick excuse, then cleaned myself up and changed into a brighter, shinier, refreshed version of me, all courtesy of The Bin. Voilà.
He pulls me in close by my ass cheeks and leans against the mudroom wall, grinding against me.
“Baby, that ass,” he says.
“You like it?” I ask, turning around and wagging it on him.
“Fuuuuck,” he says, moaning as I feel him grow.
We rush upstairs to the bedroom. Korgy shuts the door and kicks off his pants and boxers. I tug his bare cock up between my legs so he can feel my heat. He reaches down to tease me with his middle finger.
“I’m on my period,” I warn him.
“I don’t care,” he says. “I want your blood on me.”
He brings his finger to his mouth, covered in blood, and licks it up one side and down the other, then crouches down onto his knees and starts licking me.
I lift my skirt to look at him. He smiles, blood smeared on his lips and cheeks like he’s having the best meal of his life.
It’s not a creepy gesture, something out of a slasher film.
It’s something deeper. More substantial.
It’s evidence that I can cling to in my moments of doubt.
That this is how much he wants me. That he wants even my gross parts.
He stands up, penis bobbing toward me, rests his hand on the small of my back, and impales me like it’s nothing. And I wrap my legs around him like it’s everything.
I rip off my shirt and bounce on his cock while he grabs some towels and spreads them out on the bed. He lifts me off of him, sets me on top of the towels, and slaps my tits with his bloodied dick.
“Slap my face with it,” I say.
“What?”
“Slap my face with your bloody dick.”
“Are—Are you sure about that, Waldo?”
“Do it. Slap me in the face with your bloody dick.”
And so he does. It makes a soft smacking sound when it meets my cheek and the blood splatters onto my eyelids and forehead.
“Do it again,” I say.
So he does.
“Again,” I say.
So he does.
There’s something deep in me that wants this, to be slapped by a dick covered in my own blood.
I want the small smack of pain, the flick of the blood drops, the smell of metal.
It’s disgusting, but it’s what I want. I don’t want poems. Quivering hands.
Longing looks. Picnic blankets and Gerbera daisies and dimly lit dinners.
I want so much more. Something truer. Uglier.
I want to go to a shared place, shameless and foul enough that we can’t turn back.
That we’re somehow united in it. That my mark on him is indelible.
He shoves himself into me again and I moan his name while I ride him, showing him just how badly I want him.
Sex is the one place I can. The one place it’s okay.
The one place where my needs aren’t too big and all of my yearning is acceptable.
The one place where I can show how deep the well is within me.
The void. The one place I can beg and whine and scream to have it be filled.
“Hello?!”
Korgy pulls out of me. His dick flails wildly through the air, coagulated clumps of blood flying off of it.
“Hello?” Gwen’s voice calls out again.
“Shit,” Korgy says, looking at me, panic-stricken.
“Shit,” I say back, equally panic-stricken.
“Babe?” Gwen calls out.
Korgy runs into the restroom, wets a hand towel, and scrubs the blood off himself. He chucks the hand towel on top of the bed towels and scoops them all up in one quick motion.
“The closet. Get in the closet,” he tells me.
Korgy dumps the towels into the corner of the closet and I tuck into the other corner and crouch down, huddling over my knees as footsteps make their way up the staircase.
I try tugging the sliding door shut but it’s on the wrong track, so I push that door away from me and grab another one, which is still wrong, and then re-push and re-pull until I get this home-cooked slide puzzle challenge right, all those seasons of Survivor culminating in this one moment. But will I win immunity?
“Teddy!” Gwen shouts.
I peer through a crack in the closet doors as Korgy throws on his clothes, grabs his iPad from the nightstand, and shoves his earbuds in.
“My skirt!” I whisper, spotting it on the other side of the bed. Korgy kicks it under the bed then leaps onto it just as Gwen swings open the bedroom door.
“Oh. Hi, babe,” Korgy says, pretending to be startled, even taking an earbud out to sell it. Nice touch. Talented liar.
“Did you not hear me? I was literally screaming for you.”
“No, I didn’t hear, sorry,” he says, taking out the other one. “Had music on while I was catching up on some reading.”
“I was screaming.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear. Everything okay?”
“Bethany’s dog got sick. Wish she would’ve at least called me before I drove all the way over there.”
“Right, right.”
“Are you okay?” Gwen asks.
“Yeah, fine,” Korgy says too quickly and with a jumpiness that would give any woman pause. Gwen studies him.
“Ohhh, I see…” she says, a realization dawning on her.
“What?” Korgy asks innocently, then catches up to her. “Oh, you think I was…? I wasn’t—I honestly wasn’t.”
The pulse of an oncoming gush of blood swooshes through my uterus, then through my cervix.
I cup my hand underneath as the blood oozes out, gelatinous clumps and mucousy, goopy strings of it.
I try to contain the slimy flow in my hand but it slides through my fingertips and onto the carpet underneath me.
“It’s okay,” Gwen says, unbuttoning her top as she inches closer to the bed. “Turn it back on. We can watch together.”
“Baby, I’m—I’m really beat.”
“Too beat for this?” she asks, snapping her bra strap.
She kicks off her ballet flats and crawls onto the bed in her bra and jeans, back arched as she kisses her way up the length of Mr. Korgy’s jeans and moves her hands to his thighs.
Another chunk of blood pulses out of my vagina and dumps into my hand as I watch the man I love be seduced by his wife.
“Baby, please. My mind’s just in work right now,” he says.
Hurt flashes in her eyes and for a moment I feel like I’ve won.
Until the sleeve of a wool turtleneck brushes my cheek and I remember I’m the one cupping my own period blood in her closet.
Another chunk of blood surges and as it does, so too does the evidence from just minutes ago, the evidence I swore I would cling to in moments of doubt.
The proof of just how badly he wants me.
Here I am, in a moment of doubt, and suddenly the evidence seems thin.
Useless. Who cares that he wants my blood on him?
That’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
“Alright.” Gwen sighs, kicking off her jeans to prove a point. “I’m gonna shower. Please feed Gregory.”
“You got it.”
“Love you,” she says, attempting to throw it over her shoulder, but there’s a lingering hurt in her eyes that betrays her efforts. An unmistakable question mark that asks, Do you love me too?
“Love you too,” Mr. Korgy says unceremoniously, the way anyone says anything they’ve said a million times before.
Gwen bites her lip, dissatisfied, and shuts the bathroom door softly behind her.
The shower faucet creaks on. The water pressure sounds good even from here.
Korgy looks over toward me, clutching his chest.
Whew, his eyes say.
I look down at the mess I made, the red, clumpy puddle on the carpet underneath me. “I bled on your carpet.”