She took a drag off my smoke, then jammed it out on my thigh.
"Fuck you," she said, as if the cigarette hadn't already made that statement.
I would've screamed, but I won't give you the satisfaction of hurting me. It's no different than the orgasms. Can't give you the satisfaction of my pleasure. Can't show weakness by giving up that control. Of course, you only burned me because I can't give up that control. It's what I do. Drive you to hurting me so you forget that I've been hurting you all along.
But you don't forget, nor should you.
I waited until you left and then put some ice on my thigh.
"Why?" He just laid there. I grabbed the cigarette out of his hand, took a long drag, watched the burning ash and all of a sudden without even thinking about it smashed it down on his thigh and held it there. I could feel skin burning and the fucker didn't scream. That hurt me more than if he had.
I threw the cigarette on the floor, stubbed it out with my heel, grabbed my coat and headed to the door.
A half-hour later I'm in the bathroom at the Dive Bar pressed up against a wall. He keeps slamming into me. I'm pushing back, meeting his thrusts. He's getting close. I'm not. I tense. I don't want him to finish yet. I can't be robbed twice in one day. I slow down, but he's already done. I feel it. Or to be more precise, I'm not feeling it anymore. There is a slow stream of him running down my leg and actually dripping into my heel. I hear him raising his zipper as I reach into my purse, find my baggie and bump myself up. I want him to leave so I can at least finish myself, but then I see a roach running across the floor and the mood, if you can call it that, is over. I hear him asking if I'm coming. It takes me a second to realize he means am I leaving the bathroom with him. I wave my hand away, not even looking. And when I hear the door slam shut, I vomit into the bowl without even missing a beat.