by Quinn Burkhart
He told me to shut up but I didn’t listen, spewing words like gasoline out over the curve of his back. I felt his spongy lips move from my mouth to my breasts and fall onto my stomach. I don’t know what I was talking about at that point. Political stories, weather forecasts, the price of the sheets beneath us. Anything and everything but he wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t pause. Then I was crying, his tongue hiking upward into the canyons of the most scared part of my body. I whispered stop, but immediately moaned afterward and he smiled through his own sea of desire. You like this. My body raised in pleasure even after I threatened to hurt it if it did. Head against the wall, my eyes looked up through the window above my bed. Rainy day, wind howling, screen blurry. Blurry like it needed windshield wipers. I had just gotten new ones installed on my car two days ago, but they hadn’t helped me to see clearly anywhere but the road.
Quinn Burkhart is a fiction-ish writer from Pittsburgh who listens to too much classic rock and stays up late to watch reruns of The Golden Girls. Every night.