The Morning of Goodbye-Love, Hate and Obsession Erotica

“Will you be there for the morning of goodbye,” I had asked you.

I don’t know why you ever touched me. Wrapped in the bedspread, dank and musty. Stinks of “hotel” laundry. My eyes adjust to the light. You are gone. Remnants of last night strewn about everywhere. You are undeniably present without being. Your scent hangs like a pendulum, fucking with me. Lingering. It’s choking me.

I dash to the bathroom in time to lie my face upon the cool porcelain of a toilet that was sanitized for my comfort. I vomit, purging you from my stomach. You had tasted better the first time around.

What the hell was I thinking?

Gathering the pathetic paisley print spread closer around me, I shiver, my knees still weakened from the strength of the upheaval. I look into the mirror, wiping a piece of spittle from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. I examine my eyes. They stare back at me darkly, mocking me. My hair looks like a fire out of control, disheveled and tousled. And red. Oh so red. Matted with blood, crusted to my forehead.

I check the gash. It has scabbed over during the night.

Has it come to this? Desperation striking so deeply that I go back to the brutalization of you? I smile at the mirror. It doesn’t return the pleasantry. The lips of the image there, cracked and bloodied.

The cigarette burn like a festering beauty mark upon my cheek.

Remember girl, you wanted this.

Yes. I wanted this. I wanted this bathroom with its ridiculous conch shell and turtle pattern. I wanted the shower curtain that doesn’t match the damn russet colored tiles. I wanted this bedspread that thousands of overly amorous couples have came on wrapped around my body. The vile smell of stale cigarette smoke infiltrating my swollen nose.

Yes. I wanted this.

I wanted you one last time. See, I couldn’t stay away. I’m addicted. A fiend in need. You’ve haunted me. All along. You were the best lover I ever had. You knew precisely what to do to me. Imaginative, inventive, insatiable and intense. Oh God, yes. You had it all.

And I needed that last night. One last time.

Sure, sure I knew the price. I know that every time you impale me, you are going to make me pay for it. I know you are the worst sort of misogynist. 

I love the way you hate me. When you are hating me its unreal.

The way you throw your abhorrence into me. The way you batter your abomination. The way you get behind me and hone your hostility.

No one better. Never will be again.

See, I needed you. One last time. To put the ghost to sleep. I couldn’t get over the want of you. I saw your face everywhere, heard your voice in my own. I knew you couldn’t say no to your favorite victim if I invited you here. To have me. To bleed me.

One last time.

Looking at you in the afterglow, I remember telling you I would die for you. You laughed at me, said I just might.

I slide open the shower curtain and you stare up at me. Your eyes glazed in that twisted pain and pleasure look you adored so when I looked at you that way. Your eyes are fixated upon me. Oh darling, finally. You look at me. Really seeing me. You look so peaceful there, my love. Funny, I don’t remember your hair being so dark. Staring down the length of your body, the rivulets of your blood leaving little racing stripes. Matting down your chest hair. God, how I loved to run my fingers through that hair.

Raising the revolver to my mouth, I open wide, swallowing the muzzle just the way you like. Taking it deeply into the brutalized depths of my throat as I climb into the tub with you.

I feel the excitement building. So hard. So hard in my mouth. Like steel. Yes. Explode for me, love. Now. I want to be with you. You said you would never be with me forever, but you were wrong. So wrong.

Hurry baby, we need to go. It’s check out time and besides, this room is hideous.

The shower curtain matches nothing.