Filthy logo

Sense

His lips taste of cigarettes, his tongue of regret, but still you swallow his smoky praises and choke on his empty promises.

By Miranda JaenschPublished 4 years ago Updated 2 years ago 3 min read
Like

His shirt smells of cheap cologne and his breath smells like beer, reeking of a bad idea, but when he turns to leer at you, you hold your breath and smile. You know what to do; the way to flick your hair, how to laugh even when he isn't funny - and he almost never is. He’s actually never much of anything at all, and maybe that’s why you go to him. You watch as he shifts closer to you, reaching out towards you. In his hand is some fruity drink, a clear cooler bottle filled with bright blue, sugary headaches. Instead of taking it, you lean in and kiss him.

His lips taste of cigarettes, his tongue of regret, but still you swallow his smoky praises and choke on his empty promises. It’s nothing like you hoped it would be. Every time, you hope - maybe this time, it will be different, maybe this time, it’ll be fireworks and sunsets and home - but you’ve yet to be surprised, and now you know how the rest of the night will go. Even his cologne-soaked shirt is the same as last. He doesn’t waste time and soon you’ve let him lead you from the party, down the hall, and you’re kissing in the only dark and hidden corner, and for some reason, this time, you catch yourself wondering how many other girls have been led to these musty sheets.

But, right now, it doesn’t matter, it's just the two of you. His hands are running up your shirt, pulling at the edges, his teeth nipping a little too roughly at your lips and at your neck.

He sounds like a broken record player, a skipping needle coated in sickly sweet words that don’t hide his intentions - and they all stick at the same question. Then, it isn’t a question, and you tell yourself that it’s okay. You knew. You knew exactly how this would end - you wanted it to end like this. You let him fumble with the button on your jeans, before he pushes your panties to the side.

The harsh carpet is unforgiving; it burns up your back, as his lips burn up your chest. His hands are sweaty, slipping over the skin of your thighs, gripping at your hips as he moves over you. His heavy breath stings your neck, your nose, and his empty weight feels like an anchor, pinning you under a black sea, pushing you down, down until you can barely breathe.

He is a corrosive toxin; his release feels like acid, flooding your veins and eating away at every little piece of you. He burns his way through you, an unpleasant tingling that spreads in synchronisation with your regret, all the way from your fingertips, still weakly gripping his shoulders, up your arms, straight to your chest, where he's pressed flat against you.

You’ve grown hotter with even the short and minimal movements he made, and a drop of sweat from the end of his crooked nose, healed one too many times, drips onto your face. Was this whole encounter just a less than mediocre attempt at intimacy? Or merely just vain self-assurance? You’re not sure anymore, but then again, you never are at this point.

As quickly as it began, it’s finished. He’s finished. Without a word, he’s out of you, and then out the door. You lie there, frozen. You’re suddenly very cold, but your body is still scorched from his touch; there’s a hollow pit quickly digging it’s way down in your stomach.

He looked like everything he saw in you, and that really wasn’t much at all.

humanity
Like

About the Creator

Miranda Jaensch

woman; reader, writer, sometimes teacher, mother, lover, fighter, sister, daughter, partner, and friend.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.