A long tradition in jolting awake
It wasn’t every night, but it was any number of nights. The woman wakes with a jolt. But only after the gradual, gradual noise-ee feeling that interferes from a plotless dream. The noise-feeling intrudes into her awareness with ever-increasing intensity until she finally realizes that it’s not a dream. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. IT is a drum; a warning going off in her head. In her most intimate parts. Her eyes open and there he is, looming as he penetrates her. The woman’s eyes are just now open, but he’s not looking at her. He’s looking up, over her head at the wall, or the picture, or the lamp. He’s intense and his face shows it, top teeth biting his lower lip in the white-man head-bob of pleasure.
The sensations jolt, too. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Rhythmically ramming inside her dry self. She realizes it’s that pain that woke her up. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn…, she thinks to the rhythm of the jolts. She’s being fucked, fantasy-style. Porn-style. Legs up in the crook of his elbows. Soon, she’d be plowed, knees pulled up from behind.
There’s no one directing this porn scene except for him, and it’s all silently played out in his head. The woman wasn’t consulted. Wasn’t prepped. My role is being drunkenly asleep, she thinks, and that is enough for him.
