The room is going dark and the baby is in my arms. “I just wanna feed the baby,” he slurs in his thick alcohol laden voice. I don’t remember what happens next, maybe someone shows up in the nick of time, maybe he just leaves of his own accord. It’s a memory buried and it doesn’t want to be re-opened. I know I’m left jittery, shaking any time someone even slightly resembling Sam shows up at the fast food place where I work. I’ll remember the second time though, in a clarity so brilliant that it might be a film I can project any time, starting, stopping, rewinding.
Sam and I were a couple, tumultuous and angry in that raw-edged way only teenagers can be. Sam refuses to believe that he’s the father of our baby. I cheated on him, but it was several months too early for anyone to be the father but him. He’s bitter and makes me pay for it as often as possible. Sam spends nine months telling me I’m a whore, a no good slut. I hold his baby picture up next to the photo of our baby, identical save for the yellowish cast and the outdated clothing Sam’s mother is wearing. He still has doubts. I finally tire of the constant barrage and tell him to get lost. A couple months later, he appears at the foot of my bed and tries to kill me. Continue reading
I’m home alone from school on a sick day, watching The Price is Right. My boyfriend, Sam, walks in with a gas station rose wrapped in cellophane. This is the first long term relationship for either of us. I’m sixteen, he’s a year older. I tell him not to kiss me, I’m all germy, but he does it anyway. He says he’s skipping class to come check on me. I flip the station over to cartoons, ask him to hand me the ginger ale. Grinning, Sam starts to pull all these little plastic bubbles out of his pockets- almost like the kind with a toy inside from a twenty-five cent prize machine, but a little bigger.
Popping one open, I see that they each contain nylon knee high stockings; forest green, maroon, mustard yellow. I kick off my fuzzy slippers and try on a navy blue pair. I laugh, and tell him these are something old ladies wear to office jobs. Sam strokes my foot, then brings it up to his mouth and kisses my toes.
“Eww!” I make a face and yank my foot away. I don’t know what the hell this is about. Grabbing my foot again, he presses my toes up against his crotch. He unzips his jeans, rubbing his cock across my foot. I suddenly get it. I peel off my pajamas, naked except the blue knee highs. The dark blue against my pale legs looks foreign. I feel awkward. Sam pulls a chair in front of me and sits down.
Guiding both my feet around his dick, he asks me to jerk him off with my feet. I try to keep my feet together, and slide them up and down. The nylon is cheap and slippery, it’s already starting to snag and run. Leaning back in the chair, Sam slowly drives his hips up and down. My legs are getting tired and I’m trying not to sneeze on him.
He gyrates and shuts his eyes. I look past him and watch the television, clicking through the channels until he finally grunts loudly and finishes. I peel the sticky stocking off, wrapping them in a paper towel. I tell him to bury it deep in the trash on his way out.